


Lone Wolf

by WastingYourGum



Series: Lone Wolf [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - No Mrs Lestrade, Asexual!Sherlock, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is also introduced to one D.I. Greg Lestrade. The attraction is instant - and, John believes, mutual - but Lestrade seems strangely reluctant to act on it. When John finds out what Lestrade's secret is, things will be very different for all of them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Greatly_ expanded from a quick fill originally written for a prompt on the kinkmeme (the fill forms part of a later chapter so I'm not telling you _which_ prompt until you get there ;P ). 
> 
> No beta, please correct/criticise where you see fit. I welcome _any_ feedback, good or bad.
> 
> Chapters 1 - 9 were published on my [LiveJournal](http://wastingyourgum.livejournal.com/32613.html#cutid1) before being imported here and published all at the same time. Future chapters will be updated on both sites.
> 
> Chapter 8 contains some gorgeous (spoilery!) artwork from the very talented geniusbee.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _January 31st, 2010_ : John wakes up at his new home, the morning after the night before...

John Watson woke up gradually. He was curled into a foetal position, cocooned under a thick duvet, feeling safe and warm. It was such a rare occurrence he fought hard against consciousness before finally giving up. This bed was much more comfortable than the one at the M.O.D. flat. Even if he hadn't already made his mind up, that settled it. He'd go collect his stuff later and officially move in to 221B Baker Street.

He rolled onto his back and stretched... and swore as his leg viciously reminded him of the strain he'd put on it the night before, after he'd done nothing but limp on it for months. His limp might be psychosomatic but the muscle atrophy it had caused was all too real.

He fumbled for his watch on the bedside table and peered groggily at it. Wow - nearly ten. He hadn't slept so deeply since before he went to Afghanistan. Of course he hadn't spent too many days running across London, chasing after murderous cabbies and mental consulting detectives either.

He threw on his clothes and winced his way downstairs to see about some breakfast.

Sherlock was already up, dressed - impeccably - and fiddling with something in a beaker at the kitchen table. He didn't look up from it as John entered the room. "Ah, John, good - you're awake. I told Lestrade we'd be there by eleven."

"Sorry, what? Be where?"

"Scotland Yard, to give him our statements." Sherlock frowned at him. "You don't have memory problems, do you?"

"No, my memory is absolutely fine, thanks." John pointed at his new flatmate. "Sherwood, wasn't it?"

"Very funny, John." Sherlock returned his attention to his beaker. "It's a common enough symptom amongst PTSD sufferers. I was merely checking. After all, you already have a hand tremor, a psychosomatic limp and trouble sleeping. Memory problems would not be unexpected."

"Nope - memory is good and I slept like a log last night, thanks." John stretched his arms above his head and yawned hugely. "Eleven? OK. Just let me grab a quick cuppa and I'll be good to go."

He grabbed the handle of the fridge and pulled the door open; an empty white desolation met him.

"Ah. Right. No problem. I'll grab some shopping later. Is there any coffee?" John refused to have tea without milk but he could manage coffee.

"Two sugars for me," was Sherlock's response - which John took to be affirmative.

"Right." John checked the kettle had enough in it for two mugs and flicked it on. He scratched the stubble on his chin as he waited for it to boil. Black instant coffee - breakfast of champions. Just the thing to set him up for trying to pull the wool over the eyes of London's finest...

* * *

Sherlock breezed in to Scotland Yard as if he owned the place with John bobbing along in his wake.

John was pretty sure it shouldn't be this easy to just walk into the headquarters of one of the largest police forces on the planet. Shouldn't there be more security procedures? Other than a quick ID check at the front door - which Sherlock blatantly ignored - nobody did more than glance at them. Several of those who did meet Sherlock's eyes hastily turned the other way as if he was a fight they would rather not have. John got a few more looks but whatever untouchable aura Sherlock was giving off must extend to him as well.

It was all smooth sailing until they met the storm-laden countenance of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"What now, freak? Haven't you caused enough trouble?" Donovan's less than friendly greeting assaulted Sherlock and John almost as soon as they stepped from the lift into the Homicide and Serious Crime Command's office. She rose from her desk and strode towards them, stopping them from advancing any further.

"Lestrade asked us to come down today to give statements. So here we are," Sherlock replied.

"Since when do you do what you're asked?" Donovan looked round Sherlock to where John was standing. "You not run away yet? Has he got something on you or are you just a masochist?"

Sherlock cut in before John could answer. "Is he here?"

Donovan leaned back on the edge of the desk nearest her. "Course he's here. Wading through that shit-load of paperwork you generated last night." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Sherlock then she folded her arms triumphantly. "I know what it is. You want to know if you picked the right pill. Tough luck - chemical analysis isn't back yet."

"I _know_ I picked the right pill." Sherlock couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice at having his motives guessed. "I'd like to know what was in it."

Donovan said nothing but her face had _Yeah, right_ , written all over it.

A gruff bellow came from the corner office. "Donovan! If that's Sherlock, tell him to get his arse in here!"

Sherlock swept past Donovan but she put her arm out to block John's way as he followed. "Not you, just the Freak. He'll call you in after. You can wait there." She pointed at a couple of uncomfortable looking plastic chairs next to the water cooler.

John helped himself to some water and settled down. He didn't have long to wait. Barely ten minutes later Lestrade's door opened again and Sherlock exited. John stood up, unsure of whether Sherlock would be staying or going and what he should do.

"Dr Watson - could you come in here, please?" Lestrade called.

Sherlock plopped himself down into the chair John had just vacated and fished out his phone. He flashed John a brief, sardonic smile. "Don't worry, John. I assure you Lestrade's bark is much worse than his bite."

John stepped into the small office and closed the door behind him.

Lestrade was busily writing some notes on a large pad of paper. He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk without looking up. "Take a seat please, Dr Watson. This shouldn't take long. Just tidying up some loose ends, you understand."

John nodded and sat down. Lestrade continued writing and John took the opportunity to take a quick look around the office and then a better look at its occupant. Yesterday had all been a bit of a blur and John hadn't formed much of a picture of anyone he'd met other than Sherlock. When his new flatmate was in full flow everyone else seemed to fade into the background.

So... Lestrade. The D.I. looked exhausted and John wondered how much sleep, if any, he'd managed to get since they'd left him at the college last night. The bags under his eyes and his greying hair made him look older but on closer inspection John would put him at mid-to-late forties; just short of six feet tall; carrying a few extra pounds, no doubt thanks to the desk he was currently sitting behind, but certainly not fat, just a bit soft round the middle.

 _Snuggly_ , John's treacherous libido supplied. He coughed and cleared his throat as he ruthlessly suppressed that line of thinking.

Lestrade looked up at him in surprise. He had warm, dark brown eyes, _like melted chocolate, mouth slightly open, could just slip my tongue i... Stop it!_ John coughed again and looked away.

Funny, he usually leaned more towards women than blokes but this was the second time in as many days he'd been instantly attracted to a man he'd just met. One a complete nutter who' declared himself 'married to his work' and the other a policeman who was about to ask him some very awkward questions. _You do know how to pick 'em, John..._ He chuckled to himself.

"Something funny, Dr Watson?"

"No, no, sorry." John apologised, instantly straight-faced again. "You take your time."

"No problem, I'm done anyway. Can I just check a few particulars?"

John confirmed his details as Lestrade read them off various reports on his desk; name, date of birth, place of birth. Current address? He gave Baker Street. As of...? Yesterday, before that he was in M.O.D. accommodation. Yes, he was recently discharged after serving in Afghanistan; no, he hadn't got a job yet.

"How'd you meet Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Mutual friend. He knew I was looking for cheap accommodation and Sherlock was looking for someone to split the rent with."

"A _friend_ thought you might want to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes? Bloody hell - what had you done to piss him off?" Lestrade looked incredulous but John could tell he was joking and took it as a rhetorical question. Lestrade leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his pen in the textbook manner of an ex-smoker. "So, you met Sherlock on Friday and moved in with him yesterday. Bit quick, isn't it?"

John had heard this before. _"Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"_

"It was a good deal. It's the end of the month so there was no reason to put it off and I don't have a lot of things to move."

"Yeah, I noticed not much of the stuff in the flat was yours."

"I'm getting most of it later - but, like I said, there's not a lot anyway."

"Easier to be neater with less stuff, I suppose. If only Sherlock was that tidy," Lestrade said wistfully. "So, care to tell me exactly what happened after we left Baker Street last night?"

John took a deep breath and tried to sound as bored as possible. "I already told Sergeant Donovan at the college. I tracked the GPS on the pink phone and saw it had left Baker Street. Sherlock didn't have it so I realised he must have gone with - or followed - whoever did. I got another cab and followed the signal to the college. That's when I called you. I could see the phone in the cab but there was no-one there and I didn't know which building they were in. I took a guess and was trying to find a way in when I heard the shot."

Lestrade held his hand up to interrupt John's flow. "From the building you were trying to get into or the other one?"

John knew his fingerprints would be all over the doors - he wasn't stupid. Sadly, it looked like Lestrade wasn't either. He'd have to watch for that. Hanging around Sherlock could easily make you underestimate everybody else. "The one I was at. I got in and ran up the stairs to roughly where I thought the noise had come from. I could see the lights in the other building and the bullet hole in the glass. I didn't see Sherlock - I think he was trying to help the cabbie."

"You ran _towards_ the sound of the shot?"

"I thought that's where Sherlock would be - and even if he wasn't, somebody else might be hurt... and I'm a doctor."

"...Fair enough. And you didn't see anybody else?"

"No. I ran back downstairs to try to get into the other building but then you lot showed up. I waited for Sherlock to come out and then we left. We grabbed some take-away from a Chinese restaurant on Baker Street, took it home, ate it and went to bed. _Separately_ , before you say anything. I've already had more than enough of people jumping to the wrong conclusion. He's just my flatmate, nothing else."

"Mmm-hmm." Lestrade leaned forward again and made a few notes. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose a couple of times as he wrote.

John wondered if Lestrade was getting a cold - common at this time of year and his immune system was probably run-down.

Lestrade looked straight up into John's eyes. "So if I had you tested right now, the only residue on your hands would be from prawn crackers?"

John's stomach clenched as he remembered that, despite Sherlock suggesting it straight away, he hadn't actually done anything about cleaning his hands the night before. He'd hidden the gun in his new room then fallen asleep. "No. We didn't have any prawn crackers."

Lestrade held John's gaze for a minute but John had been eye-balled by some of the hardest Sergeants Major in the British army. He looked steadily back, even going so far as to raise his eyebrows as if to say _Are we done here?_

Lestrade smiled. "Alright, Dr Watson, you're free to go. Thank you for your time."

"That's it?"

"Unless you have anything you'd like to add?"

"No. Nothing I can think of."

Just before John stood up Lestrade asked, "So, who's been saying they think you and Sherlock are a couple?"

"God, _everybody_!" John sat back again and rolled his eyes. "Sergeant Donovan, Mrs Hudson - that's the landlady; the bloke at the restaurant last night; even my bloody sister and my supposed best mate have been making comments on my blog!"

"The mate who set you up with Sherlock?"

"No, that was Mike - different friend. Bill was in the RAMC with me."

"So you're single? No girlfriend? Or boyfriend?"

Something in the way Lestrade asked made John pause before answering. "Not at the moment, no."

Lestrade held his hands up apologetically. "Sorry. Just surprised is all. Thought all you handsome young doctors were meant to be beating them off with a shitty stick." Lestrade grinned and John tried very hard to ignore the fact he'd just been called handsome for the first time in ages - and by someone to whom the word more than applied.

"Maybe when I get a job again," John replied. "Unemployment isn't that attractive."

"I'm sure you'll find something soon. If only to get out of the house and away from His Nibs." Lestrade gestured with his pen in the vague direction of where Sherlock was sitting.

"Sherlock can't be that bad."

Lestrade leaned back again, chuckling. "You poor sod. You've got no idea, have you? Good luck, Dr Watson. I think you're going to need it."

John closed the door of Lestrade's office behind him and took a deep breath. He certainly would need it if he was going to let his hormones get the better of him like that. What the hell was wrong with him?

John headed straight for the lifts, speaking to Sherlock as he passed. "Come on. I'm done. Let's get home and we can sort out that rental agreement."

"Milk," Sherlock replied. He stood up and followed John without looking up, texting furiously on his phone.

"Fine. Home via Tesco..."

* * *

Lestrade watched Sherlock and John all the way out of the office until the lift doors closed in front of them.

_As if Sherlock isn't complicated enough on his own... What the hell is your story, Dr Watson? And why did I just start flirting with you like a complete idiot?_

Donovan knocked on his open door and came in. "Freak's new boyfriend in the clear then?"

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock's not a freak and Dr Watson isn't his boyfriend."

"Could have fooled me - on both counts."

"Which is why Sherlock has to keep pointing things out to you, Sally," Lestrade snapped, instantly regretting it. "Sorry... Look, just... please, don't call him that. Apart from anything else, it's unprofessional."

"Doesn't mean it's not accurate," Donovan muttered.

"We're all freaks, Sally. Some of us just hide it better than others..."

* * *

Sherlock waited until they'd left the building to ask John how it had gone. "All sorted?"

"Yes, fine. He seemed more interested in my love life than anything else."

Sherlock stopped walking and looked thoughtful. "Oh? That could be useful."

John shook his head as he walked away. "No, Sherlock, it _really_ couldn't..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _February 1st, 2010_ , John moves properly into Baker Street and overhears an interesting conversation...

"Cheers, mate." John waved goodbye to the cabbie who had helped him get the last of his belongings from his old flat and Harry's storage locker. He closed the front door of 221B behind him and looked at what amounted to pretty much all his worldly goods, stacked up in the hallway. Not much to show for nearly forty years - one of the benefits and one of the downsides of a mostly transient life.

Well, it wasn't going to move itself. He picked up a large duffel bag full of clothes and started up the stairs but he stopped when he reached the landing and heard raised voices.

"Look, I'm just asking you to keep an eye out, OK? You don't know anything about him."

Lestrade - and he sounded completely exasperated. John wondered if he was ever anything else when Sherlock was around.

Sherlock snorted. "I knew everything about him within two minutes of meeting him."

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, OK, you knew his shoe size and his job history and what his postman had for breakfast and all that guff, but you don't know _him_ , Sherlock. People are much more than just what they do and where they've been and what phone they use."

"Why are you so worried? So far John has only proven himself to be decent, sensible and - God forbid! - a little protective."

_Oh, that'll be me they're talking about then..._

"I think I'd call shooting a man dead more than _a little protective_ \- and far from sensible."

 _Shit!_ John's stomach clenched at Lestrade's words. He looked around. _OK, could I get upstairs and grab the gun without them hearing? Maybe Lestrade's already got it. Can't risk it. I can take this bag of clothes, maybe get some money from Harry, no, they'll check there first..._

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "John had nothing to do with that."

"Sherlock, you practically pointed him out to me at the scene and I could smell it all over him both then and yesterday morning. I don't mind feigning ignorance at the Yard over this one - actually no, I mind like hell - but at least do me the courtesy of acknowledging that you and I both _know_ John fired that gun."

_Wait - "feigning ignorance"? So he's not here to arrest me?_

"Yes, about that... John mentioned you'd been quite attentive. Sniffing around my flat is one thing. Sniffing around my _flatmate_ is quite another."

"For Pete's sake, I'm not 'sniffing around' anybody. I don't do that and you know it. I'm not interested."

"Wrong again, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "'Not interested' is what _I_ am. You have the same mundane sexual urges as most of the rest of the population, you just choose to ignore them."

"Either way. I'm not..." Lestrade voice suddenly trailed off.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade's voice dropped and John couldn't make out what he was saying any more.

Seconds later the door of 221B opened and Sherlock peered out at where John was crouched on the half-landing. "Ah. Thought I heard you back, John."

John knew damn well he hadn't made a sound for the past five minutes. "Yeah, I was just bringing up the last of my stuff. Got a visitor?"

"Lestrade - but he was just leaving." Sherlock said.

"Afternoon, Doctor Watson." Lestrade pushed past Sherlock and came down the stairs towards John.

"D.I. Lestrade." John stepped back and pressed himself against the wall as Lestrade squeezed by him on the landing. He caught a hint of Lestrade's scent as he breathed in. _Wow, he smells good..._

Lestrade stopped and his eyes fixed on John's.

For one horrible moment John was convinced Lestrade had somehow heard him. He felt the colour flush to his cheeks. "D-did you want something, Inspector?" _For God's sake, keep calm! He already knows you're guilty - no need to act like it!_

Lestrade gave him a slow, wide grin, showing his teeth. "Not right now, Doctor Watson, thank you." He continued down the stairs.

John didn't move until he heard the front door slam shut behind the departing policeman. His heart was pounding, he was hot all over and there had been a definite rush of blood southwards. What the hell was wrong with him?

Never mind that - what the hell was _right_ with Lestrade? If he could bottle whatever it was Lestrade was giving off, he'd be a millionaire!

"Everything alright, John?" Sherlock was still standing at the top of the stairs, smirking.

"F-fine. Thanks."

"Don't worry about Lestrade. He's very good at keeping secrets."

"Oh. Good."

"Besides," Sherlock said as he headed back to the sofa, "I definitely think he has a soft spot for you."

John breathed out slowly through his mouth. He had a spot for Lestrade too - and it was soft right now, but if Lestrade looked at him like _that_ again...

He adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder and started up the stairs again. Maybe a cold shower would help...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 16th, 2010_ , John resolves to have a little chat with Lestrade. Lestrade beats him to it...

Another day, another crime scene.

It was six weeks since John had met Sherlock and they had settled in quite comfortably at Baker Street. They certainly hadn't settled _down_ , however - which suited John just fine. He was having tremendous fun getting to know London all over again from a very different and unique perspective.

There had been one or two interesting cases prompted by requests to Sherlock's website but the ones John had enjoyed most were the ones where Sherlock was called in by the Met. It was nice to feel you had _some_ backup when Sherlock went haring off - and if that backup was led by a ridiculously attractive Detective Inspector, John didn't mind that at all.

Far from it, in fact.

When Sherlock was bustling round the crimes scene or the corpse and the lesser mortals were waiting for the grand reveal, John frequently had little or nothing to do. When Sherlock started explaining his findings all eyes were on him, but until that happened John tended to let his eyes wander in Lestrade's direction.

He was _pretty_ sure Lestrade was doing the same to him - he just hadn't caught him at it yet.

This was the fourth occasion Lestrade had called on Sherlock's assistance since the serial suicides. Maybe this time John should try and find five minutes to talk to Lestrade before Sherlock dragged him away again. Even if he didn't get as far as actually asking Lestrade out, he could at least test the waters a bit better.

Lestrade was standing in the front garden talking to Donovan when they pulled up. He gave Sherlock a brief nod of acknowledgement as they got out of their cab. He did the same to John but John didn't miss the accompanying sweep of Lestrade's gaze down his body that he hadn't given to Sherlock. Somehow it made the bitter night air just a little less cold.

_Finally caught you looking, Lestrade. That settles it - time for a chat..._

They followed Lestrade as he entered the hallway.

"So what is it this time?" John asked.

"Don't answer," Sherlock snapped as Lestrade drew breath. "I don't want to hear any of your erroneous conclusions before I've seen things for myself."

Lestrade closed his mouth, stood aside and gestured to Sherlock to precede him up the stairs. Sherlock took them two at a time with Lestrade and John plodding after him.

The room with the body was up three flights and Lestrade was wearing a slightly tighter fitting forensic suit this time. John enjoyed the view all the way up there.

He noticed that Lestrade was no more breathless than he was when they reached the top.

_He must keep himself pretty fit.... Football? Jogging? Wonder if he's a member of a gym?_

John had a vivid mental image of a slightly sweaty Lestrade in nothing but shorts, lifting weights. He could almost taste the salt...

"John?"

"Sorry?" John jumped as he realised Lestrade was talking to him.

"I was just asking if I could have a word?" Lestrade jerked his head towards the door across the hall leading into what looked like a former bathroom.

John looked to Sherlock but his flatmate only had eyes for the corpse. "Sure." He smiled happily as he followed Lestrade. One part of him was saying _Don't get your hopes up, could be anything..._ Another was already wondering whether Lestrade preferred Italian or Chinese food and if he shagged on first dates.

Lestrade shut the door behind John as soon as he entered the room. "John..." He put his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Something wrong, Lestrade?"

"Yes. Well, I think so... Umm..."

"Something to do with Sherlock?"

"No. No, it's... it's you, John."

"Me?"

For some reason Lestrade suddenly seemed to find the floor fascinating. "John, are you... Do you... Are you attracted to me?"

John choked back a laugh. He'd expected Lestrade to be all brash confidence like John's own approach but his shyness was extremely endearing. "Do I fancy you? Is that what you're asking?"

"Yeah." Lestrade looked up and John was surprised to see just how much fear there was in those (beautiful) brown eyes.

_Oh, we're not having that!_ John was determined to kill that fear stone dead. He'd always been a firm believer in the old adage that actions speak louder than words. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Lestrade's. Not forcefully, just enough to make their lips cling together before separating reluctantly when he moved away again. "Does that answer your question?" he asked softly.

Lestrade's mouth hung open in surprise. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, leaving them glistening wet.

John moved forward - he just had to kiss that mouth again right away.

To his surprise Lestrade backed off. He didn't look at all happy. "Yeah... I was afraid of that."

John stopped dead. "What? What's--? Shit, I'm sorry, Lestrade. I - I thought you--"

"No, for God's sake, don't apologise." Lestrade said quickly. "I'm incredibly flattered. I mean, you're gorgeous and any bloke would be more than happy to have you."

"Except you... and Sherlock."

"Yeah well, Sherlock doesn't count. He's not really into any of that, is he?"

"And you're the same?"

"No. No, it's--"

"Oh - so it's not you, it's me?" John crossed his arms defensively.

"Crap. I knew this would go badly." Lestrade rubbed the side of his head with his knuckles. "John - it's definitely, _definitely_ not you. I'm sorry, but I'm not looking to be involved with anybody right now. It's... difficult, with my job and everything."

"Is it because of Sherlock? You think it would be awkward?"

"No. Well yes, I guess it would, but that's... I just can't, John. I'm sorry. Trust me, I'm _really_ sorry."

"But why--?"

"Look - just... leave it, OK? I have a crappy job and I'm too old for you and you could do way better so just... find yourself somebody else who deserves you, eh?"

Lestrade whirled about and was out of the room and demanding answers from Sherlock before John could kick his brain into gear to reply. "But you're not... I don't... Why on earth couldn't _you_ deserve _me_?"

John was confused. He'd genuinely thought Lestrade was interested. Damn it, Lestrade _was_ interested - all the signs were there. John was sure he hadn't misread them. So what on earth would make a nice, good looking bloke back off at a hundred miles an hour like that?

Maybe he was still married. John had seen the wedding ring but he'd also got the impression Lestrade was single. Perhaps he'd only recently lost his.. wife? partner? But surely he would have said if that was the reason. It was perfectly understandable - why would he not just explain?

If he'd been really hurt by someone that would fit his actions better - but then why still wear the ring if it had been a painful relationship?

Sherlock could probably figure it out in a second...

John's pondering was interrupted by the man himself banging on the bathroom door.

"John! Need to find a hardware shop. Come on!"

John opened the door in time to see Sherlock's coat-tails disappearing down the stairs. There was no sign of Lestrade in the room with the body or outside as they left.

He hurried to catch up with Sherlock as they headed towards less residential streets.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock was looking up stores on his phone. He didn't answer.

John tried again. "Sherlock - is Lestrade married?"

He'd expected an irritated one word answer - or more likely, no answer at all - but Sherlock actually stopped walking and directed his attention at John.

"Why?"

"I... just wondered."

John could see Sherlock's eyes darting back and forth - a sure sign he was doing some serious thinking. He took a second to answer - which counted as a long pause for him. "No, he's not. Never has been. The ring was his father's."

OK, scrap those theories. "Right.... thanks."

Sherlock was still studying him. "John..."

"Yes?"

"Did he warn you off?"

"How did you--?"

"Try not to take it personally. He does like you. In fact I think he's more attracted to you than he has been to anyone in quite some time, but... he's not a very companionable person."

"Yes, he is. I've heard the others talk about him going out to pub nights and playing football and--"

"Yes, but he doesn't do _close_ relationships. He has... other considerations."

If John's mind was already whirling trying to figure out Lestrade, it was well and truly blown by Sherlock Holmes being _tactful_.

"Like what? Is he not out? Is that it? Worried his job would be affected if his colleagues found out he was gay?"

"Most of them already know. He doesn't flaunt it but neither has he gone to great pains to hide it. It's just not discussed."

"Then what? He used to be a woman? He's got a mad relative hidden in the attic? He's actually a trained assassin for Mycroft on the weekends?"

"Don't be absurd. Mycroft has full-time assassins. Please - just drop it, John. I can't tell you and I can assure you Lestrade won't. If he's asked you to back off then you must accept that... Pity - I was hoping..."

"What?"

"Never mind. Now, I believe there should be a suitable shop a little further up this road." Sherlock turned and marched off.

John looked back towards the house they'd just left, debating which way he should head. In the end though, he knew there was no real question where his priorities lay. He could talk to Lestrade another time - Sherlock in a hardware store was something that demanded _immediate_ concern both for his own safety, John's, the general public's and possibly most of all, their flat's.

He reluctantly headed after the consulting detective and resolved to question the professional one at a later date...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 22nd, 2010_ , John is rescued from a tricky situation by Sherlock and an unusual assistant. One of John's questions about Lestrade is answered, but a _lot_ more take its place...

John shifted uncomfortably and tried to stretch his shoulder muscles; tricky manoeuvre when you're sitting on the floor with your hands tied behind your back.

"Oi, you - sit still!" The man watching him - a small-time crook by the name of James Paterson - looked up from his newspaper and scowled. He placed his hand meaningfully on the gun lying on the table beside him and glared at John for a minute before returning to the Sports page.

John shivered. It was a milder day than it could have been for mid-March but still a long way from warm and the bare concrete basement was unheated. His left foot felt like a block of ice. He'd tried to make a break for it when they'd arrived at the sprawling industrial site and during the struggle his shoe had come off. He'd also smacked the side of his head off the ground. He could feel the blood drying on his scalp, pulling his hair tight across bruised skin. At least he wasn't experiencing any signs of concussion so as soon as Sherlock _got off his arse_ and found him, he should be good to go.

It was funny when he thought about it. It wasn't even two whole months since he'd met Sherlock but he had no doubt the man _would_ show up. Probably at the most dramatically advantageous moment; Sherlock's love of doing things with flair had been apparent from day one.

Pity sex "wasn't really his area," he'd probably be amazing at it - but John had found he was quite happy to love being _around_ Sherlock without being _in love_ with him. They'd just... clicked. Which was fortunate really - no need to worry about sex mucking up a perfectly good friendship - and, more importantly, a nice cheap flat-share.

Now, if he could just stop wanking to thoughts of a certain grey-haired policeman, he'd be sorted... It was getting downright awkward. Despite what Lestrade had told him a few days ago, John couldn't stop thinking about him and, what was worse, when Lestrade had brought Sherlock this case earlier, the D.I. had given John several sidelong glances as if he could tell _exactly_ what John was imagining when he was vigorously stroking himself in the shower.

Oh, a hot shower... John was really looking forward to one of those - with or without fantasies involving handcuffs.

He glanced up through the narrow basement window at the small patch of sky he could see above the opposite building. _What's taking Sherlock so long anyway? It's getting dark already... Wait - what was that?_

John thought he saw movement outside, a darker grey shadow against the rain-heavy clouds. He wriggled and tried to sit up straighter.

"I warned you." The man stood up and backhanded John viciously across the face.

The window exploded inwards as a large shape crashed through it and landed on the floor in front of John and his guard.

John only had time to register _big, fur, TEETH_ as he ducked his head to avoid the flying glass.

"Christ!" The guard grabbed for his gun and fired blindly in panic as the animal snarled and leaped for him, knocking him backwards to the floor. The gun skittered away out of his grasp. He frantically scrambled to his feet and fled out of the room.

John looked up. He'd expected an Alsatian or something similar but there was no mistaking this creature for a dog.

_A wolf! It's a bloody WOLF - in the middle of London!_

And it wasn't chasing after the guard. It stopped, turned its head and licked at its shoulder a few times. John could see blood; a bullet must have grazed it or some glass from the window had cut it.

The wolf had thick silver grey fur which lightened to almost white around its muzzle. It was much bigger than John had imagined wolves to be, with large powerful shoulders and a long back. John inspected it from nose to tail and when he directed his attention back to its head, he found its dark brown eyes giving him the most intelligent look he'd ever seen from an animal.

_Shit..._ John quickly broke eye contact in case the wolf saw him as a threat. He sat very still with his head bowed as the wolf slowly approached on John's left side. Its head came so close John could feel its hot breath panting against his neck - then it licked his face.

John gasped in surprise but forced himself to stay still. The wolf continued licking his face, cleaning off the blood from the cut to his head. After a minute the gentle rasping became quite ticklish, especially when it brushed across the top of his ear. Try as hard as he might John couldn't contain a quiet giggle. The licking stopped. John risked a quick glance up. The wolf cocked its head to one side, snorted out a breath through its nose and then carried on licking.

John's ear was already sensitised and the touch quickly became unbearable. "Stop it!" he gasped between laughs.

To his surprise, the wolf did. It turned and sat down on its haunches beside him then leaned its warm weight against him and nestled its head under John's chin. John closed his eyes and enjoyed the heat radiating from the animal's soft fur.

Sherlock hurtled through the door moments later. He completely ignored the wolf and bent down to untie John's hands. "Are you alright?"

John rubbed his wrists and stretched his back as Sherlock untied his feet. "I'm fine. Where on Earth did you get a tame wolf?"

"I called in a favour. They're not quite as good at tracking as dedicated breeds like the bloodhound but I didn't have time to be picky. There were hundreds of places they could have been hiding you near here. He was able to find you using this." Sherlock held out John's missing shoe.

"Oh, brilliant - thanks. I like these shoes." John slipped it back on and Sherlock helped him stand. "What happened to Paterson and his brother?"

"Got away - for now. Lestrade's got all the details though. They won't get far."

John reached down and scratched the wolf's head. He smiled as the wolf pressed its skull up into his hand. Its thick tail banged happily against the floor.

"Stop that," Sherlock snapped.

"Why? I think he likes it."

"I wasn't talking to you," Sherlock replied.

The wolf sat with its tongue lolling out, looking for all the world like it was laughing at Sherlock.

John almost laughed himself when Sherlock produced a collar and leash from his coat and attached them to the wolf. He was sure that wouldn't fool anybody.

Strangely though, despite a few second glances, most people did seem to be as unobservant as Sherlock always accused them of being. They were able to walk to a busy street without any incident. To John's complete lack of surprise however, the first three black cabs that passed them didn't even slow down.

The wolf whined as the third one headed away.

"No, we go all together or not at all," Sherlock said.

John looked at him curiously. Sherlock was giving the wolf more attention than he gave most people - yet another black mark against his claim to be a sociopath.

Finally a cab stopped and a short while later they were all safely ensconced within the Baker Street flat with a large box of fried chicken Sherlock had insisted they stop for on the way.

John grabbed a couple of plates from the kitchen while Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. The wolf stretched out on its stomach in the middle of the floor, with its head between its paws. It looked strangely fitting amidst the random clutter that Sherlock and John lived in.

"So how long are you keeping him for?" John asked, tilting his head towards the animal as he sat down.

"Don't worry about that. He'll be home before morning." Sherlock flipped the lid off the chicken, lifted some of it onto his plate and started picking out the bones.

John grabbed a few pieces onto his own plate. "His owner's coming to pick him up?"

"Something like that."

John waved a drumstick in Sherlock's direction. "You should eat something too."

"Maybe later." Sherlock set the bones aside and started picking apart another piece.

John made short work of his share of the meal. As he finished he realised that now he was no longer hungry, he was incredibly tired. "I think I'll just head to bed. I'm done in."

"Good idea." Sherlock put John's pile of bones into the empty bucket along with the ones from his plate.

The wolf sat up and looked intently at the plate of meat but made no noise or move towards it. He was very well-trained.

"OK." John stood up and stretched. "Thanks again for finding me."

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied.

"And you... good boy." John patted the wolf on its head and it gave a small growl of acknowledgement as John turned to go up the stairs.

John got changed into his pyjamas, brushed his teeth, checked the cut on his head - which didn't look nearly so bad as he had feared - and headed for bed. He reached the door of his room when he realised he wanted a glass of water - the saltiness of the chicken had made him quite thirsty.

Sherlock's voice drifted up the stairs as John trudged wearily back down to the living room. Must be calling the wolf's owner. Or maybe he was using the wolf as a substitute skull since John wasn't there?

"Stop whining, Lestrade."

_Lestrade? The wolf's named after Lestrade? I wonder if he knows..._ John grinned at the thought but the grin vanished when he heard the _actual_ Lestrade's voice answer from _inside_ the room.

"I'm not whining. I'm just tired... and I'm still hungry. I could eat a horse right now."

"Really?" Sherlock sounded interested in Lestrade's offhand remark.

"No. Not really. I suppose if I was hungry enough a whole sheep might be possible but... No. I know that look. You're _not_ feeding me a sheep. The chicken was fine. Now get this thing off..."

John pushed the living room door open.

"...and then you need to find me some clothes so I can go home," Lestrade finished.

John had started to think there was nothing he could see in 221B Baker Street that would shock him any more. He should have known better.

_Oh. My. God... What the hell happened to 'not really my area'?_

Lestrade was standing in the middle of the room, facing the door, _stark bollock naked_ apart from a leather collar.

Sherlock was standing immediately behind him, fully clothed, his long fingers working at the buckle on the collar.

It was probably one of the most arousing things John had seen in his entire life. He gasped and the attention of both men was instantly on him.

"Shit!" Lestrade turned scarlet and clutched his hands together over his privates. He made a wild lunge for the Union Jack cushion on John's chair and held it in front of him.

"Hello, John. Did you forget something?" Sherlock smirked at him.

Lestrade had outright panic in his eyes. "John - it's... it's not--"

"Of course it's not!" Sherlock snapped. "John can work it out for himself."

"I... can?" John dragged his eyes away from Lestrade's body to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. "Think it through, John."

"I'm not sure I want to know what all... _this_... is." John waved his hand at the pair of them.

"I should go." Lestrade took a step forward but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder.

"No wait - he'll get it."

"I don't want him to get it, Sherlock. Let me go."

"Just wait."

"Let me _go_!" Lestrade snarled. He tore his shoulder away from Sherlock's grasp, his teeth bared in anger.

Sherlock held his hands up and stepped back.

John saw the shape of the answer forming in his mind - but it was so _outrageous_... "No." He shook his head and laughed at himself.

"Come on, John. When you've eliminated everything else, then whatever remains..." Sherlock encouraged him.

"That's a bit more than improbable, Sherlock."

"But?" Sherlock's eyes were boring into him, willing him to make the connection.

John stared at Lestrade. "Sherlock came back here with the wolf and it hasn't left but it's not here now and you are... and you're wearing a collar like it was... and its fur was the same colour as your hair... and it got injured on the shoulder, and you've got a cut there... and..."

Lestrade looked pained. "You can say it, John. It's alright."

" _You're_ the wolf?"

Lestrade nodded.

"You're the... You licked me!" John suddenly remembered.

"It helped, didn't it?" Lestrade winced as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Let me see that." John strode forward and grabbed Lestrade's upper arms. The graze was long but not deep. "Oh. I thought it was worse than that."

"It'll be fine by tomorrow. I heal very quickly."

John scanned the rest of Lestrade's body for any other injuries. Lestrade's feet and hands were filthy and he had a strong musky smell, presumably from running when he was tracking John but there were barely any marks at all, not even scratches. He also had an extremely nice arse...

"Uhh, John?" Lestrade prompted.

John realised he was _inspecting_ the Inspector. "Sorry." He stood back and let his arms drop to his sides.

"It's fine. Some clothes would be nice though. Mine are locked in my car." Lestrade looked pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock resumed his attempts to unbuckle Lestrade's collar. ""If you let me have a spare key--" he started.

"I'd never expect to find my car where I left it. No chance," Lestrade finished.

"Fine - I'll see if I can find something baggy enough," Sherlock dropped the collar on the table and headed for his room, leaving Lestrade and John standing in a very awkward silence.

John couldn't take his eyes off Lestrade.

Lestrade looked everywhere else but at John.

Eventually John cleared his throat. "Couldn't you just... y'know... go home like you were and then get changed there?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Too much hassle. I'd have to change back to open the door and, knowing my luck, one of the neighbours would come out just as I was standing there in the hall completely starkers."

"I could come with you and let you in..."

"No, they don't allow animals in my building. Thanks, John - but I really don't want to have to change again tonight. It's quite tiring. I'll just go home as is. Besides, you need to rest too."

"Right, yes, sorry, I didn't.. I mean... Yeah." John lapsed into silence again.

Sherlock came back through with a pile of clothes which Lestrade hastily snatched from his grasp and pulled on.

"Right. Thanks, Sherlock. See you tomorrow.... Night, John."

He was almost out of the door when John caught his arm. "Lestrade..."

Lestrade stopped but he still refused to meet John's eyes.

"I would never tell anybody. You know that?" John asked.

"Yeah... I know... Thanks"

And he was gone.

John turned to Sherlock. He drew breath trying to decide which of the four hundred questions he had he should ask first, but Sherlock shushed him with a swift motion of his hand.

"Unless it's about the case and the particularly clever way I worked out where they'd taken you, I have nothing to say."

"But you... He..."

"I told you. I won't say anything. You'll have to ask him. Don't expect many answers though."

Sherlock went back into his room and closed the door.

John stood in the living room staring at the pile of chicken bones, the licked clean plate on the floor and the collar on the coffee table. If it wasn't for the faint scent in the air that he'd come to recognise as being uniquely Lestrade's, he'd have easily persuaded himself the whole thing had been an hallucination brought on by his head injury.

This hadn't even made the list of all the possible explanations he'd come up with for Lestrade's shyness but it made perfect sense now. Of course - he wouldn't get involved with someone in case they found out his secret.

But now, John _knew_ his secret - and the more he thought about it the more OK he was with it. If that was all Lestrade had been worried about, then problem solved. John Watson, danger-junkie, meet Greg Lestrade, a whole level of dangerous you never even knew _existed_. It might scare other people off but John prided himself on not being "other people".

John closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, catching the last lingering traces of Lestrade's scent. _God help me - it just makes him more attractive._

_I am so fucked..._

_If I'm lucky, anyway...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this was originally written as a quick fill for a prompt on _part one_ (!) of the kinkmeme. You can find it [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=1862719#t1862719).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 23rd, 2010_ , Another crime scene means another chance for John to see Lestrade... doesn't it?

When John woke up the next morning, the cut on his scalp had completely healed. He didn't even have a headache - until he tried to get the _bloody_ chip and pin machine at Sainsbury's to take his card.

That headache was nothing compared to the one Sherlock gave him later however.

Sherlock received an email from Sebastian Wilkes - banker with a capital W in John's opinion - about his boss's almost literally defaced portrait. A quick visit to Shad Sanderson had led them to a posh flat, a corpse and a nervous feeling of anticipation in John's stomach as they waited for Lestrade to show up.

Which, apparently, he wasn't going to do.

"He's busy," the young man snapped. "I'm in charge - and it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock shot John a withering look which John assumed meant he was thinking the same thing as John was: _D.I? Seriously? This kid is the same rank as Lestrade? He looks about 12!_

It was only after they left Van Coon's flat, John found out the look had been meant solely for him.

"My fault?"

"Lestrade hasn't had any issue working with me until now," Sherlock pointed out. "The only thing that's changed is your discovery yesterday."

"But why? I thought I handled it pretty well all things considered. I didn't freak out or anything."

"Obviously we can't say the same for Lestrade." Sherlock sighed petulantly. "I thought we had been through all this already but his feelings for you must be complicating things."

"His... what? For me?" John was confused but elated at the same time.

"Dull. I'll have to go talk to him."

"No, I'll go. " John quickly volunteered.  "If it's me he has the problem with, it should be me he talks to. Will he be at the Yard?"

"Most likely. If not he'll certainly be back there at some point."

"OK, I'll drop you off at the flat and just take the cab on to there, yeah?"

* * *

When John got to Scotland Yard, Lestrade was in his office, hunched over his desk, fingers stabbing at his keyboard as if he had a personal grudge against it.

John raised his hand to knock but Lestrade interrupted him without looking up from his screen.

"Can I help you, Doctor Watson?"

John stepped into the office and pushed the door closed behind him. He hovered awkwardly in the no-man's land between door and desk. "I, er... D.I. Dimmock said you were busy."

"Do I look like I'm not? Caught those two bastards who had you yesterday, just filling in the paperwork," Lestrade said.

"Oh," John said. "I... I never really thanked you, did I? For yesterday."

"Yeah, you did. You patted me on the head and everything."

"Yeah but that wasn't... I mean..."

Lestrade changed tack. "So how pissed off was Sherlock with Dimmock showing up?"

"He wasn't best chuffed," John admitted. "He's quite annoyed with me, I think."

"Annoyed with _you_?"

"Yeah - he thinks it's my fault you didn't show up."

"Rubbish. I was busy like I said. Besides, it'll be good for both of them. Dimmock's a decent bloke and it'll be nice for Sherlock to have someone new to insult. I sometimes think he thinks the Met doesn't have any other D.I.s except me."

"So you're not..."

Lestrade finally looked up. "Not what?"

_Avoiding me... God, that's pathetic..._ "Nothing."

"Right. Well if there was nothing else...?"

"Actually I was wondering... if you'd like to get a drink or something. Sometime."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "I still don't think that's a good idea, John."

"Yes, but now I know what you're... I mean about your... So anyway I thought, since I know, you might change your mind and..."

John hardly had time to blink before Lestrade was up out of his seat and in John's face. "Are you trying to _blackmail_ me?" His voice was practically a growl.

John backed away, horrified. "No! God, no! I... No. _Jesus_ , Greg. I didn't mean it like that. I meant... it doesn't matter. If that's what you were worried about then it's fine - I don't mind. I meant what I said last night. I would never tell anyone. No matter what."

Lestrade stalked behind his desk again. "Sorry. It sounded like... Sorry."

"That's OK. I mean, I'm flattered you think I'm the kind of bloke to resort to blackmail for a date..." Lestrade huffed a small laugh which John was very relieved to hear. "But you don't really know me, do you? I'd like for that to change."

Lestrade lowered himself into his chair. "Persistent bugger, aren't you?"

John smiled. "See - you're learning about me already."

"I'm sorry, John. I hope we can get to know each other better and it means a lot to me that I can trust you - honestly - but nothing else has changed. I'm still not looking to get involved with anyone."

"Ever?"

Lestrade looked up at him, sadly. "I think you better go. Tell Sherlock I'm sorry I landed him with Dimmock."

John didn't move.

" _Goodnight_ , John. Don't make me call someone in here to remove you, please."

John held on stubbornly for a few more moments but it was clear Lestrade wouldn't change his mind. "Goodnight, Greg." John opened the door, left the office and closed it again behind him before heading for the lift with a heavy heart.

Fine. He could take a hint. Lestrade just wasn't interested. At least it didn't seem as if it was going to affect Sherlock's work too badly.

_Bugger_. A sudden thought hit him. _Speaking of work, I have a job interview to get ready for tomorrow..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 27th, 2010_ , John and Sherlock have just been to the bank - and Sherlock's about to make a withdrawal on John's behalf...

John and Sherlock were almost home from Shad Sanderson when Sherlock pointed out a small problem.

"What do you mean you've got no money?" John said.

"You've still got my bank card. I haven't had the chance to get any," Sherlock explained.

"Oh for f--." John took a deep breath then leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie. "Sorry, mate - can you stop by a cash machine for a minute?"

"Yeah, no problem."

John sat back again and chuckled. "I've got two cheques on me for twenty-five grand and we don't even have a tenner between us."

"I didn't do it for the money." Sherlock sneered as if the very idea was beneath him.

_Must be nice_ , John thought. "No, you wanted to get one over on that smug bastard Wilkes. Why didn't you tell him the good news yourself? Thought you'd want to see his face."

"Dull. The secretary's reaction was far more interesting."

John smiled, remembering her staggering around the office in shock. "Pretty girl too."

" _Mm_. Speaking of which - have you spoken to Dr Sawyer this morning?"

"Shut up. She was a little freaked out last night. I'm giving her some space... What?" John snapped as he realised Sherlock was smirking at him.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock replied - but without losing the smirk.

"Good - keep doing that and wait there." John jumped out of the cab as it drew up next to a bank. He paused for a moment after putting Sherlock's PIN into the cash machine, finger hovering over the "Display balance" button before deciding he didn't need to know. As long as there was _enough_.

He withdrew £100 and got back into the cab. When he sat down he handed £60 to Sherlock and put the other £40 and the card into his wallet.

"John? Can I have my card back?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I'm hanging on to that."

"What for?"

"So I can get some shopping in later and pay in these cheques to your account. I don't get paid till the end of next week and some of us have to eat."

"I eat when I'm not working," Sherlock protested.

"So you'll be having some dinner tonight then?"

"Yes - unless Lestrade has something new for me - but he doesn't usually work Saturdays and he's in civvies, so I assume this is a social call."

"What?"

John looked where Sherlock was pointing to a figure standing by their front door. The jeans and jacket weren't his usual attire but there was no mistaking the shock of unruly silver hair.

Mrs Hudson opened the door just as they climbed out of the cab. John could hear her explaining to Lestrade that they weren't in, followed by her exclamation as she spotted them. "Oh! But there they are now. I'll leave you boys to it."

Lestrade whirled round to face them.

John noticed Lestrade's expression change from concern, to relief, then back to concern again as he spotted the stitches on John's forehead.

"Lestrade. Heard about last night's excitement I take it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I... Dimmock said there was a bit of a barney and I just wanted to check you were alright. Both of you I mean." Lestrade jammed his hands awkwardly in his jeans pockets. His jacket gaped open at the neck to reveal an Arsenal shirt underneath.

"All three of us, in fact," Sherlock said, pushing past him and leading the way inside. "Doctor Sawyer was shaken but unharmed and she took care of John's injury." Sherlock stopped and turned. "Surely Dimmock told you John's date was with us as well?"

Lestrade looked like Sherlock had just slapped him in the face.

_You complete bastard_ , John thought.

"No, he... he didn't," Lestrade muttered.

"Yes, Sarah, isn't it, John?" Sherlock carried on, seemingly oblivious to Lestrade's reaction, though John knew he was anything but. "He met her at his new job. She was a big help with the case actually."

John glared at him. _You can shut up any time, Sherlock_...

Lestrade's face fell further and he started backing away. "That's... good. Yeah. Look, I can't stay. I was just heading down the pub to watch the match and thought I'd stop by. Better head off. Glad you're OK and... you take care, yeah?"

"Yeah. No problem. See you later, Lestrade," John said belatedly as Lestrade turned tail and fled.

John closed the door then turned to find Sherlock standing at the foot of the stairs, studying him.

"Interesting," Sherlock commented.

"Oh for God's sake... _What_?"

"He could easily have called either of our phones."

"You heard him - he was passing."

"Between his house in Holloway and the pub he watches football at in Finsbury Park?"

"He must have been somewhere else first. Probably went to the Yard or--

"He really _is_ strongly attracted to you."

"No, he's not. He told me to back off. Why would he do that if he likes me?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and stomped up the stairs, whipping off his scarf and coat. "Think about it, John. He rushed over to ensure you were not seriously hurt. He's spent a very long time denying himself any company at all and now he's found someone he wants to get closer to but he had no idea what to do next, especially when confronted with your relationship with Doctor Sawyer."

"Yeah thanks for that." John followed Sherlock into their flat, taking off his jacket. "Look Sherlock, Lestrade has made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with me."

"No, he's _said_ he wants nothing to do with you. He's made it perfectly clear that he _actually_ wants the opposite. And so do you! Why else would you be upset that I mentioned Sarah to him? Good God! I can never understand why having these sexual urges seems to make you so blind to their effects! You're two of the most intelligent men I know and _I'm_ the one having to point this out!"

John flopped down into his chair. "Sherlock, there are a million reasons why I have to go by what Lestrade says rather than what you think he's telling me, not least of which is _he can arrest me_."

"But he's just being stubborn!"

"And I have to let him."

"But--"

"No, Sherlock, _no_ , " John said firmly. "We're not discussing this any more. Thanks for letting me know Lestrade is at least not rejecting me because he doesn't fancy me... Actually, I'm not sure that makes it better, but thanks anyway. Now, I'm going to have a cup of tea and update my blog before I head back out to the shops..."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 28th, 2010_ , John finds himself with a rare free evening... What's a boy to do?

John was right. Knowing that Lestrade cared didn't make it better. He couldn't shake the memory of Lestrade's face - the concern, the relief - and then the pain when Sherlock mentioned Sarah.

John was confused and annoyed by Lestrade's reaction. So what if he'd had a date? Lestrade had been the one who given _him_ the cold shoulder. What did he expect? No way was John going to sit and pine for a man who couldn't decide what he wanted. No matter how gorgeous he was... or how good he smelled... or how good those jeans had made his arse look...

_Fuck_.

Sitting alone in an empty flat on a Sunday evening, bored out of his mind was not helping. He grabbed his phone and thumbed out a message.

Sherlock's out for the night. Fancy a drink?

He scrolled down the list of contacts but when he stopped, it wasn't Sarah's number he'd selected - it was Lestrade's.

God no. That wouldn't be fair to anybody - Sarah, Lestrade _or_ himself.

John sat and stared at his phone for a few minutes before it rang in his hand. The sudden noise and vibration startled him and he dropped it. By the time he scrambled to pick it up again he didn't have time to look at the caller ID before he breathlessly answered it.

"H-Hello?"

"John? Everything alright? I tried calling Sherlock but his phone's off."

Lestrade. Great. _Talk of the devil..._

"No, I mean yes, everything's fine, I just... couldn't find my phone for a minute. Sherlock's in Minsk."

" _Where_?"

"Somebody got in touch on his website earlier. He flew out this afternoon."

"Crap. Any idea when he'll be back?"

"Nope."

"Oh well - it wasn't that urgent. Just a question on a case from last year. I'll fire him off an email."

"Listen, Lestrade," John took a deep breath. He had to do _something_ \- and even if Lestrade was determined to be a bloody _monk_ that didn't mean he couldn't be a mate. "If you're free tonight, d'you fancy going out for a drink? Grab a few pints, have a bit of a natter, that sort of thing - as mates, yeah?" he added quickly, as he heard Lestrade draw breath to object. "I'd rather we get to know each other the old fashioned way without Sherlock just telling us each other's life stories."

There was quite a long pause before Lestrade answered. "Yeah... Might be better if you came round mine though - I'm guessing you have a few questions I don't really want to discuss in public."

"More than a few, if I'm honest," John admitted. "If you're OK to talk about it."

Another long pause. "Sure, why not. Got a pen?"

* * *

Lestrade's house turned out to be a modest, suburban, semi-detached villa with an overgrown garden. The front door had frosted glass panels and John could make out a blurry impression of Lestrade approaching the door down the well-lit hall. He could also spot the exact moment Lestrade recognised his scent and came to a brief halt before carrying on and unlocking the door. It swung open to reveal him dressed much the same as the day before, in casual jeans and a dark green shirt.

"Evening, John. Found me OK then?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"You better come in."

John nodded and stepped inside as Lestrade moved back to allow him to pass.

"Cup of tea - or something stronger?" Lestrade asked.

"Umm, what have you got?"

"There's some Stella in the fridge... or we can see what's lurking in the drinks cabinet?"

"No, Stella's fine."

Lestrade vanished through into the kitchen.

John looked around at the furniture, TV, DVD collection, paintings on the walls, small pile of laundry on the end of an ironing board shoved up against the wall. The coffee table had several empty mugs on it, along with a remote control, and some newspapers. There were no family photos but other than that it was a staggeringly _normal_ house. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but he felt somehow disappointed.

Lestrade reappeared with two bottles and an opener. "Did you want a glass?"

"No, don't go to any bother."

Lestrade popped the caps off the beers, handed one to John and then sat in the single chair that showed the most wear. "Cheers."

John perched nervously on the edge of the sofa. "Sláinte."

They both took a long pull and then sat in awkward silence, avoiding eye contact until John fell back on his military training and retreated to safe ground. "Didn't know you were an Arsenal fan, Lestrade." He nodded his head towards Lestrade's red and white striped scarf hanging over the back of a chair. "Who were they playing yesterday?"

"They were away at Birmingham City. I try to get to most home games and London derbies but I don't travel when they're out of town. You follow it yourself?"

"No. Never really got into football that much," John said. "I'll watch it if it's on but I grew up playing rugby union. My family's mostly from the Scottish borders - it's practically a religion there."

"Yeah, I've heard that... You didn't come here to chat about sport though, did you?"

"I came to chat about anything you want. I think we started off on the wrong foot and if we're both going to be stopping the general public throttling Sherlock--"

"Never mind the public - it's my team I'm most worried about. In fact, you may need to stop _me_ throttling him on occasion."

"Yeah, well - you should try living with him."

"God, no! I'm amazed you've lasted this long, what with the violin and the experiments and everything."

"Army life kind of makes you immune to the idea of personal space and privacy - and if you can live in close quarters in a hot climate with a bunch of blokes, your nose can pretty much take anything!"

" _Yours_ maybe can."

"So... your sense of smell is the same as... when you're...?" John nervously spun his bottle in his hands before gulping down another mouthful.

"No, it's just better than yours. Same for my hearing. I can see better in the dark too - and I'm a bit stronger than you'd think to look at me. Works the other way round as well - wolves are usually colour blind. I'm not."

"You're _sure_ you don't mind talking about it?"

Lestrade dragged his hand through his hair. "Nah. Knew you'd have a shit load of questions. S'only natural - and there's no way you could be as bad as Sherlock. He quizzed me for nearly two days solid."

"God, I can imagine... How did he find out?"

"Not much different from you. He got himself lost and hurt and I had to change to find him."

"Sherlock got lost?"

"He... wasn't exactly thinking straight at the time."

"He was high, you mean. He did tell me about the drugs."

Lestrade nodded. "I made sure he was OK then sneaked off, put my clothes back on and came back. He sat and stared at me for a long time and then _totally_ freaked out. I pretty much had to sit on him before he eventually calmed down."

Lestrade sighed heavily and looked at the floor. He took another long swig of beer before speaking again.

"I... tried to persuade him he'd been hallucinating. Not very proud of that. I think it was the kind of shock he needed though. Made him much more keen to stay in my good books, that's for certain."

"Does anybody else know?" John asked.

"Nope. You, me and him. That's it. Sherlock says he's never told anyone else and I believe him. Then again he's never really had anyone else to tell, so I suppose you were his first real test."

"What about his brother, Mycroft?"

"The one with the Civil Service job? Don't think Sherlock talks to him at all if he can help it."

John was puzzled. "Have you not met him?"

"I spoke to him on the phone once, not long after Sherlock showed up. He said he was glad Sherlock had found a distraction and thanked me for looking after him. Sounded a bit of a pompous twit to be honest. I could see why Sherlock wouldn't get on with him."

"Now there's an understatement. Mind you, I never got on with Harry so who am I to judge?"

"You've got a brother too?"

"No, sorry - sister. Harriet."

"Ah, right.... same again?"

John looked down. His beer had somehow evaporated and instead of his ready to flee posture of earlier, he was relaxed fully back into the sofa. "Yeah, thanks. Why not?"

Lestrade fetched them another two bottles. He kicked his shoes off and put his feet up on the coffee table when he sat back down.

"So nobody else knows..." John mused. "What about your parents?"

"My parents were killed in a car crash when I was about two. I haven't any memory of them. No idea if they were like me or not and there weren't any other relatives - at least none they could find. Nobody ever came forward."

"Christ, Greg, I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Lestrade spun the gold band around his ring finger. "This ring is all I have of them. There's initials and a date on the inside but I've never been able to find any records for them - or me, for that matter. They only knew my name because my dad had a photo of me in his wallet. It was of me and a birthday cake and the back had my name and a date on it. That's it."

"So who raised you?"

"A long line of foster parents and care homes. I was a total tearaway, never settled anywhere."

"And when did you...?" John waved his beer bottle in Lestrade's direction.

"Just before my twelfth birthday." Lestrade laughed mirthlessly. "I woke up in the middle of the night and my whole body just felt... wrong. I'd changed in my sleep and I was all tangled up in my clothes."

"Jesus. That must have been terrifying - the first time it happened. Do you know what triggered it?"

"Not sure. Just my age I think, hitting puberty and all that. We'd done a project studying wolves at school the year before, when we read Call of the Wild, and I loved them. Read everything I could about them. I'd even dreamt about being one so this time I thought I was dreaming again - until I fell out of bed - then I was scared shitless, _literally_. Once I'd calmed down a bit though it wasn't too hard to change back. I just had to concentrate on being me again. I learned to control it pretty quickly."

"You can choose? You don't have to change?"

"Full moon you mean - that sort of thing? No, nothing like that. Although if I go for a long time without changing at all I get a bit... _itchy_ , so I'll flip over for the evening every once in a while."

He was so matter of fact about it but John's head was spinning. To have to go through all that on your own and at such a young age... John couldn't even start to imagine how hard that must have been.

"So are there others like you?"

"I have no idea. Could be hundreds, could be none. I've never met anyone else - but I might not necessarily know even if I did. I don't go wandering around as my other self and I assume if there are any others they don't either, so who knows? I like to think Id be able to tell somehow but it's not happened yet."

John giggled.

"What?" Lestrade asked. He cocked his head to one side exactly as his other self had done, which just made John giggle harder.

"I was just remembering that drugs bust. When Sherlock said he wasn't your sniffer dog?"

Lestrade grinned. "Very funny. Don't push it, John. I haven't had my dinner yet."

"Yeah, and there's more meat on me than Sherlock." John couldn't resist - and then immediately wished he had. _Oh God, what are you doing? Shut up, shut up, shut up..._

Lestrade looked surprised then gave a deep, throaty chuckle. "I've eaten sandwiches with more meat than Sherlock."

John laughed too, relieved Lestrade hadn't taken any offence at his flirting. "Want to order something in?"

"Yeah, I've got some menus here, hang on a minute." Lestrade hauled himself up out of his seat and went to a small table in the hallway. He pulled open a drawer in the front and lifted out a selection of flyers for local restaurants. "I think I’ve got at least one of everything here. Indian... Chinese... Pizza?"

"Mmm, no, not pizza, "John said. He stood up and joined Lestrade by the hall table. "Let me see what else you have."

"What are you in the mood for?" Lestrade turned and locked eyes with John.

…

"John?"

…

"Sorry, I... Let me see those." John grabbed the handful of papers from Lestrade and stared at them intently, not reading a word. He was peripherally aware that Lestrade was still looking at him rather than the menus.

Suddenly Lestrade reached out, wrapped his hand round the back of John's neck, pulled him close and half-kissed, half-licked his head.

John ducked away, stunned as he felt his scalp tingling from the contact. "What--?"

Lestrade dropped his hand and stepped back. "I know. I'm sorry. I should've asked but I couldn't really think of a good way to do it."

"No, it's... alright." John put his hand to his head - the cut felt much better and he realised what Lestrade had done. "Thanks."

"I'm not starting anything, John, I just..."

"What?"

Lestrade sighed. "I don't like seeing you hurt, OK? I've been a bit of a berk about all this and I'm sorry. You and Sherlock are... Well, I don't want you to think I don't _care_ about you. I just can't... Y'know."

Lestrade's red face was almost a perfect match for his football team's colour.

"God. I... I'm shutting up now, OK?"

"It's fine. I don't mind, " John tried to reassure him. He stepped closer and put his hand on Lestrade's chest. " _Really_. I don't mind."

Lestrade took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I know, John. I can... I can smell it whenever you're near me. Your scent changes... You're sending out hormones like a bloody homing beacon and it's driving me _nuts_."

"Because you're not interested."

"Because I _am_ interested!" Lestrade grabbed John's shirt in both fists, propelled him backwards and pushed him up against the wall so violently John's feet left the ground. "God - I want to tear your clothes off right now and fuck you _so_ hard..." He buried his nose inside the collar of John's shirt. "You smell so good. Smell like you want me. Want me to have you."

"Fuck yes, Greg, _please_." John had never been so aroused before at the thought of being taken. He usually topped when he was with another man but he wanted Greg to put him on his knees and fuck him until he couldn't walk; wanted him to bite the back of John's neck and hold him there; dig his nails into John's hips as he pounded into him.

Shit. He wanted to be Greg's _bitch_. How messed up was that?

As suddenly as he had pounced Lestrade stopped, stepped back and released him. "But I can't - and you know why I can't."

"If you're worried you'll hurt me--" John panted.

"It's not just that. I'm worried I'll make you the same as me. I couldn't do that to you - to anyone, but especially not someone I... really like. John - I don't... I've never... I don't know what I'll do. I've never let anyone get this close before. What if I hurt you? What if I make you the same as me? What if... Shit, what if it's sexually transmitted? I don't know and I... I can't risk it - can't risk _you_."

Lestrade had backed all the way to the opposite wall and was refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Greg, that's... I'm really touched, but surely you've already found ways to... I mean - what have you done before?"

"How do you mean?"

"With other people."

"Like I said - I've never... y'know..." Lestrade's gaze was now threatening to burn a hole in his hall carpet.

John was astonished. "You're a _virgin_?"

"Christ!" Lestrade's head snapped up again. "Tell the whole bloody _country_ , why don't you?!"

"Sorry Greg, it's just... I mean, you're _gorgeous_! How can you possibly have made it this long and not got your end away yet?"

"With a lot of hand lotion and tissues," Lestrade said bitterly. "But I'm definitely proof that you can't go blind."

"You shouldn't have to risk it - I'd be happy to give you a hand." John grinned.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. Forget it. We can't. I'm sorry."

"We can be as careful as you like." John reached out and pressed his hand against Lestrade's groin. There was an unmistakable twitch of interest. "I don't even have to touch you directly. See? Or I can wear gloves..." He stroked and kneaded Lestrade's rapidly swelling erection. "There's lots of things we can do..."

"John, please..." Lestrade gnawed at his lip but didn't make any move to push John away.

"Please what? Stop? _Don't_ stop?"

Lestrade tipped his head back and John took the opportunity to start planting small kisses and bites against his neck.

"Unnnnhhh, _fuck_ , John, John, I..." Lestrade growled and John felt it rumble through his throat.

"I want you, Greg. I've wanted you since that first time we met properly in your office. I know what you are and it just makes me want you even more."

"John, I _can't,_ " Lestrade whined. "I..."

"Are you going to make me beg? I will...I don't care. I fucking want you, Greg."

"Jesus..."

"You want me too, don't you?"

"Yes, _fuck_ yes." Lestrade's length was rock hard under John's hand and a damp spot had started to form on his jeans.

John's erection was also straining at his trousers. His heart was pounding, he felt hot all over and he really _really_ needed to either fuck or be fucked by _somebody_ within the next 30 seconds or he was going to go insane or explode or both.

"So take me. That's all you have to do." He gripped Lestrade's cock and gave it a firm squeeze, eliciting another groan. "What do you say, Greg?"

Lestrade opened his eyes...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 28th, 2010_ , How is Lestrade going to react to John's offer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to mention the two utterly _gorgeous_ fanarts that the phenomenal [geniusbee](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com) drew for this fic as a birthday present for me. 
> 
> [ ](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1ku4eH9nR1qg6krdo2_1280.jpg) [ ](http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1ku4eH9nR1qg6krdo3_1280.jpg)
> 
> Clic through for the full-size versions.

Lestrade's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist in a vice-like grip.

For one horrible moment, John thought he'd pushed too far - until he looked up.

Lestrade's pupils were blown wide with arousal, there was a light sheen of sweat on his skin and his breath was coming in short pants. "Not here," he croaked.

John took in their surroundings. He'd been so focused on Lestrade he'd not considered their location. They were standing in the brightly lit hallway he'd seen into so clearly earlier. Now that _would_ give the neighbours something to talk about. John nodded and slowly stepped backwards into the lounge, keeping Lestrade's eyes locked on his.

Lestrade followed after him, clinging to John's wrist like an anchor, letting himself be led like a child.

John moved to the end of the couch and sat on the arm, pulling Lestrade so he stood between John's legs.

Lestrade relinquished his hold on John's wrist and John reached up and started to unbutton Lestrade's shirt. "Can't believe you've never done this with anyone else. Can't believe you're letting _me_."

For all his wide experience with both sexes, John had never been another man's first before but he figured the general principles were the same. Don't rush, don't mock, don't pressure; nice and easy does it.

John pushed aside the thin cotton, leaned forward and started planting small kisses on the top of Lestrade's stomach and his chest. "God - you are _so_ gorgeous." He placed his hands on Lestrade's waist as he continued to explore with his lips. Lestrade's skin was deliciously warm and he had - to John's mind - just the right amount of chest hair. Enough to enjoy but not so much that it got in the way.

Lestrade seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. He reached out with one and pushed his fingers through John's hair.

John looked up at him and smiled. "Mmm. That feels good." He closed his eyes and went back to his task, enjoying the petting while he kissed his way toward Lestrade's nipple. He flicked his tongue over the small hard nub as his lips covered it.

" _Christ_!" Lestrade gasped and his fingers tightened in John's hair.

John grinned and made a note to come back and pay more attention to that particular area later. He kissed his way downwards again while he unbuckled Lestrade's belt and popped open the button of his trousers.

Lestrade grabbed for John's hand again. "John..."

"Too fast?" John asked. "Sorry. Just... let me know what you want. Or don't."

"I... don't know."

"OK.. well, why don't I at least catch up with you in the clothes stakes?" John pressed against Lestrade's hips and got him to take a step back, then he stood up and reached for his collar.

Lestrade got there first. "Can I--?"

John smiled. "Course you can."

They kissed again as Lestrade finished unbuttoning John's shirt. Their hands wandered as the kissing grew more passionate and Lestrade had to resume his task several times before he finished. He tugged John's shirt free of his trousers at the front then reached round him and untucked the back as well.

John took the chance to get two good handfuls of Lestrade's backside and grind himself against Lestrade's body. God, he was so hard - they both were.

Lestrade's hand slipped inside John's shirt, pushed it back off his left shoulder - and froze in mid-air.

John leaned back. "Greg?"

Lestrade's eyes were locked on the scar on John's shoulder.

_Ah_. "It's alright. It looks pretty bad, but it doesn't hurt."

Lestrade kept staring and said nothing.

John had long ago stopped feeling self-conscious about his scar but it was getting to be an awkwardly long silence. "Greg? Hello?" John ducked his head to try and meet Lestrade's eyes and waved his hand in front of Lestrade's face.

"I've been shot too - twice," Lestrade said. His voice was a monotone; flat and emotionless.

"Oh?" John glanced down at Lestrade's torso. "Where?"

"Been stabbed over a dozen times," Lestrade continued. "Couple of nasty burns. Had a splinter of wood go right through my side once."

"I don't--"

"Some little git in Hounslow carved his initials into my arm - 'something to remember me by'. Couldn't even tell you his name now."

"Greg--"

"They all healed- like they were never there - and every time I had to say I was fine, it was just a scratch, no matter how bad it hurt. I couldn't let on because then someone would have noticed how quickly I heal."

John let his eyes roam over Lestrade's body again. Sure enough, there wasn't a single mark on him.

"The other guys think I'm just lucky - or I somehow manage to not get in the way of anything dangerous. They all show off their latest scars and then look at me like I'm not trying hard enough or something. I remember when Dimmock took his first cut from a blade, just a nick really, but he rolled his sleeves up and showed it off proud as punch when we took him down the pub, trying to impress the ladies with it."

Lestrade reached out and put his fingertips gently on John's scar. "I'm not natural, John. One day my luck'll run out and they'll find out and God knows what'll happen then, but I'd hate it if anybody thought that you knew and anything happened to you because of that."

"That's not going to--"

"Goodnight, John."

Before John could protest further Lestrade had reached round him, grabbed John's coat from the sofa and propelled him down the hall, through the front door and outside onto the garden path.

John stood paralysed with surprise until he heard the door slam shut behind him. He whirled round and started banging furiously on it.

"Greg!...Let me in, Greg!"

The light in the hallway went out, followed by the one in the lounge, leaving the house in darkness.

"Greg! _Fucking_..." John pounded with flat of his hand against the door. "Don't you _dare_. Don't you _fucking_ dare... _GREG_!"

A dog started barking somewhere further up the street and, as John turned towards the noise, he saw the lights come on in a few of the other houses.

He let his hand drop and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the door. "Greg... Please. Just let me in so we can talk."

Nothing.

John waited for a few minutes. He slowly buttoned up his shirt but refused to put his jacket on despite the cold.

"Greg..."

"He's not in."

"What?" John turned to see an old man in a Mackintosh and flat cap standing at Lestrade's gate. He had a Jack Russell on a leash who looked keen to be elsewhere.

"I said he's not in. The bloke who lives there. I just passed him. He was going for a jog by the looks of it." The man jerked his head towards the end of the road.

"He...?" John took a deep breath before he blew his top completely. "Right. Thank you."

"Odd time of night to go running but he's in and out at all hours that one."

John shrugged his jacket on. The man gave the impression he wasn't for moving until John did.

"Right. I'll just... " John opened the gate stepped through and closed it behind him. He looked up and down the road. "Right." He could head for the Tube but it was only a few miles walk, pretty much straight down Camden Road, and he really needed the fresh air.

He set off at a brisk pace and ignored the prickly sensation on the back of his neck while the old man watched him until he turned the corner...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 28th, 2010_ , Lestrade heads away from home, John heads towards. Neither finds much in the way of peace and quiet...

Lestrade leaned over and put his hands on his knees, slowing his pulse and his breathing while he got his bearings. He wasn't even sure which direction he'd headed in. He'd just grabbed a sweatshirt and his keys, bolted out the back door, scrambled over the wall of his garden and legged it before he changed his mind - again.

He closed his eyes and sniffed the air, allowing his deeper senses to come to the surface. His nose caught the unmistakable scent of Kentish Town City Farm - he'd gone west. From here, if he wanted some more open space, he could either go south to Regent's Park or north to Hampstead Heath.

The thought of the latter's reputation made him snort with barely contained laughter.

_Good plan, Greg. Go running round the Heath at this time of night and get the scent of all the cruising couples in the bushes - that'll take your mind right off the raging hard-on John gave you..._

South then. He set off at a gentle jog towards Primrose Hill...

 

He slowed as he got near to the north side of Regent's Park where the Zoo was located. He'd considered visiting the Wolves there in the past just to see if he felt any sort of connection but they'd moved them to the other facility at Whipsnade a few years ago. Besides, the place made him uneasy. The last thing he needed were thoughts of cages, captivity and rare species being encouraged to mate rather than go extinct.

He hopped the park fence and moved further south past the Zoo into the open grassy area of the football pitches beside the Hub. The temptation to change and have a proper run itched at the back of his mind but he ignored it with an ease born of long years of practice. He'd only allowed himself to do that once and it had been far from the centre of London.

It was cold but the ground wasn't completely frozen. He lay down on his back, with his fingers intertwined behind his head, enjoying the feel of grass against the back of his hands and looking up at the few stars visible through London's pollution.

Lestrade sighed. _Maybe I should have a good howl...See if that makes me feel better..._

Instead, he closed his eyes and re-thought over all the reasons he'd ever told himself he had to be alone. There were plenty.

But none of them seemed to quite weigh up anymore against the feel of John Watson's short, firm body against his...

* * *

John was tired, angry and frustrated; a mood not helped by returning home to find Sherlock using the wall for target practice... or by finding a head in the fridge... or by having his write up of their first case together so thoroughly belittled.

"Put that in your blog," Sherlock finally spat. "Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He whirled round to face the back of the sofa and drew his dressing gown around him.

 _Right. Sod this for a lark..._ John stood up and grabbed his coat again.

Sherlock's head snapped round. "Where are you going?

"Out. I need some air." _That smells less of gunfire, testosterone and ego. It's like being back in the fucking army..._

John barged out of the flat, barely noticing Mrs Hudson as he stormed past her and headed for the door...

* * *

Lestrade's thoughts were rudely interrupted by a muffled _crump_ and then the distant sound of car and shop alarms. He sat bolt upright - every nerve on high alert. 

_That was an explosion!_

He sprang to his feet and twisted his head from side to side to place the origin of the noise.

_Due south... What's south from here? Oh, shit! Baker Street!_

He took off in a sprint across the grass, moving far faster than any human should be able to but for once not caring if anyone might be watching.

As he ran he realised the boating pond lay between him and his destination. He swung around to his right to go via the boathouse, cursing the added distance. When he finally reached Clarence Gate he barely slowed down as he hurdled straight over the park fence and then vaulted one-handed over the railing separating the pavement from the road. He ignored the outraged shouts of a Park patrol man behind him as he dashed across the street and turned into the top of Baker Street.

A cloud of dust hung in the air and there was rubble all over the road. A couple of cars had stopped and their occupants had got out to stare in astonishment. Lestrade headed for the nearest one, an older man in an anorak.

"Are you OK? Did you see what happened?"

"Yeah, yeah.. that house there - the whole front of it just blew out!"

Lestrade followed the man's shaking finger. It wasn't pointing at 221 as he'd feared but at 218 on the opposite side of the street.

The man looked at a large piece of masonry sitting on the road in front of his car. "If I'd been ten feet further up the road..."

"OK, just get back in your car and sit down. Emergency Services will be here in a minute."

The man slumped back into his car and sat side on, with his feet on the road.

Lestrade looked around. The other people there also appeared shocked but unharmed. "Was there anyone in front of you? Anyone in the street?"

The man shook his head. "No, no. Not that I saw anyway."

Lestrade ran over to the remains of the house that had contained the explosion. Even from what little was left of the interior it was clear the house had been empty. There were many conflicting scents on the air ( _bricks, heat, glass, wood, smaller hints of deep fat fryer and coffee coming from Speedy's shattered window_ ) but blood wasn't one of them.

Lestrade crossed back over the road to the familiar black door of 221. It had several scrapes from where bits of brick had bounced off it. He tried the handle first - Sherlock had been known to leave it open when in a hurry - but it was firmly locked so he pounded on it with his fist instead. "Hello! Sherlock? John? Open up! Mrs Hudson - you in there?"

There was no response. He stepped back and was about to shoulder charge the door when he heard the lock disengaging. The door opened to reveal Mrs Hudson. She looked a little more dazed than usual.

""Oh Inspector, thank goodness!" She looked past him into the street. "What happened? I thought maybe it was Sherlock experimenting but-- "

"Not sure, Mrs Hudson. It looks like it was in the ground floor of the house across the street. Are you alright?" He held her shoulders and studied her eyes for any sign of concussion.

"I'm fine, dear - just a bit shaken. Came down those last few stairs a little quicker than I meant to." She laughed nervously. "What a fright! It was like being back in the Blitz again."

"Surely you're far too young to remember that?" He smiled.

Mrs Hudson blushed and batted his hands away. "Get on with you. You're as bad as... Oh! Sherlock!" She started towards the stairs but then strangely turned back towards the front door as she said "And John! Oh!"

He quickly steered her away towards the door to her flat. "I'll check. You go pop the kettle on, sit down and I'll call if I need you. OK?"

"Alright. Yes, I'll... Yes."

He bounded up the stairs, two at a time. His stomach clenched when he saw the figure sprawled on the living room floor covered in glass and dust but then Sherlock groaned and coughed so Lestrade knew he couldn't be too badly hurt.

"Sherlock! Sherlock? Come on, let me see you." Lestrade knelt beside him.

Sherlock groggily rolled over. "'L'strade? Wha.." He sat up and looked at what remained of the two large windows facing the street. "Oh. "

"Are you hurt?"

"No. Ears are ringing a bit but... John!" He made to get up but staggered and fell back on the floor, clutching at Lestrade's arm.

"Where is he?" Lestrade looked around frantically. There was only the faintest trace of John's scent.

"He left shortly before the explosion. He went out. He might be hurt. We have to..." Sherlock struggled to stand again.

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's shoulders. "Easy. You have to sit there and do nothing. It's OK - I came up from the street. John wasn't there."

"Not in...But he hasn't come back... so... he must have already been in the Underground..." Sherlock visibly relaxed before he suddenly tensed again. "Is Mrs Hudson alright?"

"She's fine." Lestrade picked out a few bits of glass from Sherlock's hair and started checking his scalp for any damage. "Better than you at any roads."

"I told you, I'm not hurt... OW!" Sherlock jerked away as Lestrade found a sore spot on his head.

Lestrade looked at the blood on his fingertips and sighed. "Yeah, right. Come 'ere."

"And let Auntie Lestrade kiss it better? Must you?"

Lestrade sat back on his heels. "No, I don't have to. You can sit there and bleed for all I care. It won't kill you."

Sherlock huffed but bent his head forward and tried to part his hair to allow Lestrade better access to the cut.

Lestrade pushed Sherlock's hands away and did his own rearranging of Sherlock's impossible curls. He swiped across the cut with a few rasps of his tongue then watched as it started to heal.

"Hold still, you've a couple more."

He did the same for a smaller cut on Sherlock's cheek and another on the tip of one of his ears. In the meantime, Sherlock's face was doing a spectacularly good impression of a child disgusted by having his face cleaned by its mother using spit on a handkerchief.

"There." Lestrade gently ruffled Sherlock's hair. "Let's get you away from this mess, eh? And let me help you off with that dressing gown - it's covered with glass. Come on, up you get."

Lestrade helped Sherlock get shakily to his feet, carefully took the gown off him and hovered one step behind him as Sherlock stumbled over to the kitchen table and plonked himself down at it.

"So where was John heading to?" Lestrade asked as he rolled the gown up inside-out and laid it aside.

Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down and sighed. "Of course. He must have gone to Sarah's."

"Is he.. Is he still seeing her then?" Lestrade wondered why he was even bothering to try to sound like he wasn't bothered. He wouldn't fool anybody, least of all Sherlock.

"Apparently so."

"Oh. Right. Well... good for him."

"Lestrade..."

"Got a dustpan and brush? We should get this glass cleared up." Lestrade started opening and closing cupboard doors. "Ah - here we are."

"Lestrade." Sherlock grabbed his arm as Lestrade made to move past him back into the lounge. "John propositioned you and you pushed him away again, didn't you?"

Lestrade sighed. "Literally. We got a bit too close and I... panicked."

"You're worried you may make John like yourself? We already know biting and licking has no effect."

"How about fucking?" Lestrade said vehemently. He quickly blushed and turned away. "Sorry. It's not... it's not just that."

"Then what? I can't think of a single challenge that John would not be prepared to face - would probably welcome in fact. He thrives on risk. Everything that makes him a perfect partner for my work also makes him a perfect partner for you in a more romantic sense."

"There's no such thing as a perfect partner for me, Sherlock. We both know that. If I'm discovered then anyone I might care for could be used to flush me out. We've been over this."

" _God_!" Sherlock growled in frustration. "Sit down, Lestrade. I can see I'll have to explain this at Anderson-level."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade said reprovingly.

"Sit." Sherlock pointed at the chair opposite him.

Lestrade sat down and put the dustpan and brush on the seat beside him.

Sherlock put his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together.

"Let us assume there are persons unknown who suspect your... alternate nature and wish to exploit it. You are concerned these people will use any personal relationships you may have to force you to surrender to them, should you manage to avoid capture when they attempt it. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Therefore your only course of action is to have no personal relationships. Yes?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed, the way he usually did when he felt Lestrade was being abnormally thick. "Then why did you dash over here when you heard that explosion?"

"What?"

"If you cannot be seen to care for others, why are you here?"

"I... I was just...I'm a policeman - it's what I do." Lestrade couldn't think clearly. What was Sherlock getting at?

"No, if you were merely doing your duty you'd be back down in the street investigating the explosion once you'd ascertained there were no casualties - and have you even checked any of the other houses?"

"No... but--"

"Lestrade - you're trying to pretend you don't want a relationship with John so you can keep him safe, but any idiot can clearly see you already _have_ a relationship with John - and me for that matter. It doesn't even matter that John and I know what you are. Even if we didn't, anyone watching you for more than five minutes would mark us both as potential leverage to use against you based solely on our friendships with you. You have so few relationships it's not really the strength of them that matters, just their _existence_. John, me, possibly Sergeant Donovan as well, are all _already_ at risk."

_Oh God... How could I not have seen that?_

"So you have two choices."

Sherlock parted his hands and counted off his points on his fingers. "One: you stop giving any indication at all that you care the slightest bit for John or me or anyone else..."

"I... I could do that." Lestrade said, but without any real conviction.

Sherlock just _looked_ at him. "Lestrade, I am rapidly realising that even _I_ cannot do that... or two." He tapped the tip of his middle finger. "You do what you should have done weeks ago and admit that you and John are perfect for each other and strengthening your relationship with him can only be a good thing for you both."

"Yes, admittedly," Sherlock continued, before Lestrade could interrupt, "That will make him target number one but objectively that's a position he already holds. Any outside observer would consider you much more likely to be sympathetic to John than myself."

"So if I really want to keep him safe, I have to act like I have no feelings for him at all, not even as a friend. Same for you."

"Yes, but like John, I believe I would be... I would miss...That is... I am also happy to assume any risk associated with being considered your acquaintance, rather than have you disown me."

Lestrade was genuinely touched. As far as he was concerned he'd just got on with looking out for Sherlock ever since he'd realised that was what the younger man needed. He'd assumed Sherlock tolerated it as part of working with him, not that he actually set any store by it.

He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "Well, that's... Thank you."

Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to bed. I'm so bored out of my mind, I may even sleep. Let me know if that explosion was anything interesting - or if you have a case." He stretched and then shuffled back down the hall to his bedroom. "All or nothing, Lestrade - it's your choice."

 _Unless John's already made it for me with Sarah..._ Lestrade thought. He looked at the chaos in the living room and the dustpan and brush beside him. "Sherlock! You..."

_Ah, stuff it. Better I clean it up than Mrs Hudson - which reminds me..._

Lestrade picked his way across the carpet to the stairwell.

_I promised her an update - and there's a very good chance of a cup of tea and a biscuit or two before I have to come back up here to this lot..._

* * *

John pressed the buzzer and leaned over so his mouth was close to the intercom. 

There was a crackle of static then the expected voice. "Who is it?"

"Hi Sarah - it's John. I know it's late but... could I come up?"

"Is everything OK?"

"Yeah, it's just... Sherlock was driving me mad and..."

"Say no more." He could hear the laugh in her voice. "Come on in."

"Thanks."

John pushed the door open and jogged up the stairs to Sarah's floor. She opened the door of her flat in her dressing gown.

"Oh, shit. Sorry," John apologised. "You were probably in bed, weren't you?"

She stood back to let him in. "Yeah - but I wasn't asleep, just watching telly with my brain off. Do you fancy a drink or...?"

"Honestly? I just want to talk to somebody sane for five minutes."

"You nearly got me killed on our first date and yet I'm still speaking to you - are you sure I qualify?"

John chuckled. "Fair point."

They sat and chatted about nothing much for a while over two mugs of _very_ Irish coffee. John could feel his stress easing. He liked Sarah  - she was good company, she obviously liked him and most importantly she hadn't run screaming at her first exposure to Sherlock. Sitting progressed to snuggling... progressed to kissing...

"So are you... staying the night?" Sarah finally asked.

The hint of _more_ hung tantalisingly in the air between them. John had played this game enough to know if he wanted it, it was there for the taking. He'd been taking it slow so far, but maybe he should. He should have some really good sex with this lovely woman and forget all about that bloody irritating stubborn (gorgeous) bloke.

Except he was still very much thinking about the bloody irritating stubborn (gorgeous) bloke and he'd be cheating on both of them by doing that. Suddenly he was just tired.

"I'll just crash on the sofa, if that's OK? I'm really done in."

"You sure? You'll do terrible things to your back on that. I've still got that lilo somewhere."

"No, sofa's fine, honestly. Thanks, Sarah."

"OK - let me get you a blanket." She disappeared through into her room and came back with a spare duvet and blanket.

"Sarah..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Really."

"One of these days I'll catch you _before_ Sherlock wears you out." She was laughing but John could tell she was a little disappointed. It was quite good for his ego.

"I already fell asleep on the job once - didn't think you'd forgive me a second time."

"You might be surprised." Sarah gave him a quick kiss goodnight and sashayed off to her room.

John unbuttoned his shirt, pulled his socks off (his shoes had been kicked off much earlier) and hauled the duvet over his legs...

Next thing he knew Sarah was pulling back the curtains and turning the Breakfast TV news on...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 29th, 2010_ , Lestrade calls Sherlock into the Yard after an interesting discovery in the blown up building opposite his flat...

Most people at the Met had quickly accepted John as Sherlock's shadow, especially when they saw the effect he had on Sherlock's naturally acerbic temperament. As they both entered the Homicide and Serious Crime Command area nobody was surprised to see John in his usual position, one step behind the self-styled consulting detective.  
  
Nobody except Lestrade - who knew that John had more than likely spent the whole of last night somewhere other than 221B Baker Street after parting from both Lestrade and Sherlock on less than friendly terms.  
  
Had John returned to Baker Street this morning and been there with Sherlock when Lestrade called? Had Sherlock met him somewhere else or picked him up _en route_? Maybe he'd just called John and asked to him to meet at the Yard? Had John even known the Yard was where they were heading? Lestrade couldn't help wondering why John was here, how much he already knew and whether or not he was even speaking to him.  
  
Well, wherever he'd come from, he was here now and Lestrade was going to do what any other grown-up, sensible Englishman would - carry on as if last night had never happened...  
  
He barely acknowledged John and spoke directly to Sherlock as he led them into his office. "You like the funny cases, don't you? The _surprising_ ones..."

~~~~~~~~

  
Lestrade peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the image on the pink phone. "221 _C_? The basement flat? Are you sure?"  
  
"Positive. That mirror is particularly distinctive."  
  
"Right. I'll get a car and--"  
  
"No." Sherlock swept out of the room, John in tow, leaving Lestrade to scramble for his jacket and race to catch up with him.  
  
"I still don't understand what you have against police cars, " Lestrade grumbled as they took the lift to the ground floor.  
  
"Too conspicuous." Sherlock strode from the lift, swept out of the front doors and marched briskly to the edge of the pavement.  
  
"And you're all about blending in, aren't you?" Lestrade winked at John behind Sherlock's back but John's face remained impassive and he turned away.  
  
 _Bugger... Neither forgiven nor forgotten it looks like..._  
  
John stepped aside as the cab Sherlock had just hailed drew up alongside them. "You go in first, Lestrade. I want the pull down seat. My back is killing me."  
  
 _I really didn't need to know that... Thought he'd be happier if he got his end away last night..._  
  
Lestrade clambered into the cab and stared out of the window as Sherlock flopped down beside him still studying the pink phone and checking things on his own. John climbed in and sat facing Sherlock but looking out of the window on his side of the vehicle.  
  
Lestrade breathed a little deeper; _DustSHERLOCKRosinLeatherSoapFemaleJOHNSweatFloral_ \- Sherlock had been playing his violin this morning? Ignore that - Sarah, her perfume, the fabric conditioner of her bedsheets was all over John. Lestrade rubbed at his nose and shut his senses off - no use torturing himself.  
  
They were almost there before Sherlock slipped both phones back into separate pockets of his coat. From the corner of his eye Lestrade could see Sherlock looking back and forth between his two companions. He got the distinct impression John was also watching-while- _not_ -watching.  
  
"This makes a pleasant change. Usually can't get you two to shut up," Sherlock commented. "Ah , here we are."  
  
The taxi turned into Baker Street and slowed to a stop.  
  
Sherlock jumped out.  
  
John and Lestrade barely glanced at each other as they hurried after him.  
  


~~~~~~~~

  
Sherlock carefully lifted the trainers from the centre of the floor.  
  
"Right. I'll take these to Bart's and see what more they can tell me that they haven't already."  
  
Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you can't just remove evidence from a crime scene. Forensics will--"  
  
"Forensics will take several days and that woman only has hours. Besides this isn't a crime scene. The crime scene is across the road."  
  
"Burglary is a crime."  
  
"Housebreaking is a little beneath the remit of the Serious Crime Command, isn't it? Nothing is broken, nothing is missing and I'm taking the shoes so the flat will be exactly as it was. At best you could only prove trespass - unless 'aggravated leaving of footwear' is on our statute books now?"  
  
"I still need to get Anderson and his mob in here to check for the usual fingerprints, fibres and what have you. Anything that can help us track down the bomber."  
  
"They won't find any, but I suppose the practice will do them good. I'll let you know if I find anything on the shoes."  
  
Lestrade held up his hands in defeat. "Oh God, _fine_ then. Just get on with it."  
  
Sherlock smirked in triumph and headed for the stairs. "John?"  
  
John stepped back as Sherlock passed, still looking anywhere but at Lestrade.  
  
Lestrade decided the carpet and mirror were more interesting than anything else in the room at that point.  
  
"Oh, for pity's _sake_!" Sherlock exploded with exasperation making both men snap their heads round to look at him. "Can we please deal with this tedious drama before it gets in the way of what could prove to be the most fun case I've had in ages! John, Lestrade was round at Baker Street last night before the dust had even settled to see if you were alright. He knows he's been an idiot - he's just incredibly stubborn and scared of change. Lestrade - John's back is sore because he slept on Sarah's sofa, not on Sarah. He wouldn't commit to her because he still wants you."  
  
John and Lestrade both choked in shock before blurting out simultaneously, "Sherlock! You've _no_ right--" "I am _not_ scared!"  
  
" _Please_ ," Sherlock scoffed. "Let me make this simple - you want him, he wants you, you're both idiots. Now, kiss and make up or whatever the hell it is you need to do. I have bigger fish to fry." He practically ran up the stairs leaving John and Lestrade shuffling their feet and still avoiding looking at each other.  
  
"You... you came round last night?" John asked Lestrade after what felt like a hundred years.  
  
Lestrade nodded. "I was nearby; heard the explosion and figured if it wasn't your flat, it was damn close. I scraped his nibs off the floor but you weren't there."  
  
"So you thought I'd gone to Sarah's to..."  
  
"Yeah. I couldn't blame you. You must've been bloody frustrated. Sorry."  
  
"I was... and I was going to, but... Well, it's complicated. I like Sarah but we've never really _clicked_ , y'know? Not like..." John waved his hand vaguely between the two of them.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I thought it was our place too - the TV news just said Baker Street and I assumed--"  
  
"John!" Sherlock's bellow echoed down the stairwell.  
  
"You better go," Lestrade said. "I need to get cracking on trying to trace that poor bloody woman." He dug his phone out of his pocket but gripped it tightly instead of using it. "Do you... Could I still... I mean, are we--?"  
  
" _JOHN_!"  
  
"Go on. " Lestrade stepped to one side to allow John to pass. "Hopefully we'll get together later, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." John put his foot on the first stair, but then he abruptly whirled round, pushed Lestrade up against the wall and kissed him, briefly but fiercely. "And this time we're getting together _properly_ and staying that way. Right?"  
  
Lestrade gaped at him then felt his face break into a broad smile. He shoved John away towards the stairs. "Get on with you."  
  
John threw him a wink then bounded up the stairs and vanished.  
  
It took Lestrade a few seconds before he realised he was just standing there, grinning like the very idiot Sherlock had just accused him of being and he still had a _lot_ of things to get organised.  
  
He flipped open his phone, pressed the speed dial and waited till he got a response. "Donovan, call the team in. We've got a hostage in a unknown location, apparently wired up with a bunch of explosives and we're on a 12 hour countdown. Some unknown person or persons is communicating through her via a pager or something. Better notify SO15 as well..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 31st, 2010_ , after a couple of frantic days Lestrade and John finally find a moment to themselves...

Lestrade yawned and rolled his head from side to side, stretching his neck muscles. Even by his standards it had been a _very_ long couple of days.  
  
Fake companies, fake paintings, fake deaths, all mixed in with far too real deaths and hostages and victims.  
  
At least they finally had a name - _Moriarty_ \- but that was about they all they had, beside the fact he had a soft voice. All his dirty work had been carried out by others; others like Oscar Dzunda, 'The Golem'.  
  
The autopsy on Dr Cairns wouldn't come in until tomorrow but no-one doubted it was the same cause of death as the security guard; the constellation of bruises across her face showed the same hand at work, literally.  
  
A bloody massive hand it was too - that Czech bloke must be _huge_ \- and according to Sherlock's statement, John had grabbed him round the neck and clung on "like a terrier." ("More like a hobbit riding a cave troll," John had muttered. Lestrade had laughed and fought down a sudden urge to grab John by his jumper and tell him he should stop being so bloody perfect and so bloody reckless.)  
  
About the only bright spot to the day had been the call Lestrade had taken earlier from two very grateful parents. He'd been sure to let them know where the credit really should go. Even if Sherlock didn't want their gratitude, he deserved it.  
  
And then, when he'd just started on the mountain of paperwork from _that_ case, he'd received another call.  
  
Sherlock - not content with the bomber having them dash all over the city like blue-arsed flies - had somehow found the time to fit in a little freelance work and identified another completely unrelated murder, previously chalked up as a suicide.  
  
Which was why, instead of being home getting ready for Arsenal's European clash later that night, Lestrade was in the living room of a poky little suburban house, taking yet another statement from the two occupants of 221B Baker Street.  
  
"Why the hell were you even looking into this?" he asked Sherlock.  
  
"My client was convinced Mr West would never have committed suicide."  
  
"And they were right, " John added.  
  
"And your client is?" Lestrade said, more in hope than any expectation of a straight answer.  
  
"Not relevant to your investigation."  
  
"Course they're not." Lestrade checked his notes. "So Harrison and West quarrelled about something, Harrison pushed West down the stairs, killing him, then tried to dump the body by sticking it on top of a train which stopped by his back window?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Don't suppose you can tell me what they were fighting about? Something to do with the sister?"  
  
"I couldn't say," Sherlock replied - which could equally mean _I don't know_ or _I'm not telling you_.  
  
"He's made a full confession so it's not really important - I was just curious." Lestrade tucked his notebook away.  
  
"Are we free to go?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yes - I think that's everything. I'll call if it's not."  
  
Sherlock turned to John. "John, I have a small errand to run. I'll see you back at the flat."  
  
John nodded. "Understood."  
  
Sherlock departed and suddenly Lestrade found himself on his own with John Watson - and there were no hostages to save, no clues to be chasing after and nowhere either of them had to be right this very second.  
  
John looked around, as if to make sure they were indeed alone, before he smiled and said simply, "Hello."  
  
Lestrade returned the smile. "Hello."  
  
"This has been bloody frustrating, you know? I must've seen you twenty times in the past couple of days but we've never had a chance to stop and talk."  
  
"Yeah. Been a bit hectic."  
  
John laughed. "Just a bit."  
  
"I'm glad that Golem bloke didn't pulp you."  
  
"Me too! God, he was _massive_!" John said, his eyes widening. "He made _Sherlock_ look short!"  
  
"Didn't stop you both having a go though, did it?" Lestrade replied fondly.  
  
"For all the good that did. It was like trying to tackle an elephant."  
  
"You sure you're OK though?"  
  
John moved closer to where Lestrade was standing. "You mean - do I have anything you could lick to make me feel better? I'm sure I could think of something..."  
  
"How do you do that?" Lestrade asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Convince everybody you're so nice when you're completely wicked."  
  
" _Years_ of practice, mate." John slid his hands under Lestrade's coat and around his back, pulling their bodies closer. "I believe you and  I have some unfinished business, Inspector."  
  
"John..." Lestrade leaned back. "This isn't exactly the appropriate time or place."  
  
"Fuck appropriate," John swore, "Can't keep my hands off you another minute."  
  
"That's nice, but there's going to be a dozen FSIs in here shortly. I'd rather they not find us like this."  
  
"OK. Point taken." John withdrew his hands from under Lestrade's coat and put them back round his waist but this time on the outside. "You're done here, right?"  
  
"Harrison's already on his way to the nick to get processed. There'll be the usual reams of paperwork but nothing that can't wait - or that I can't delegate. I just have to hand over the scene to Forensics and they should be here any minute."  
  
"Good. In that case, I'm going to go wait in your car until you're free to give me a lift home." John stepped back and held up Lestrade's car keys with a flourish.  
  
"What the--?" Lestrade felt in his pockets and snorted in disbelief. "You're definitely spending too much time around Sherlock."  
  
John turned and walked up the hall. "Well you know how you can sort that, don't you? Persuade me to spend more time with you."  
  
"And how do I do that?"  
  
John opened the door, innocently said "Handcuffs?" in _far_ too loud a voice, and vanished down the stairs.  
  
Lestrade followed him down to the street and the line of tape separating the pavement from Harrison's front garden. He called over one of the uniforms to tell them he was leaving and no-one was to enter the house until Forensics arrived.  
  
Once that was done he walked over to where John was lounging against his car and held out his hand.  
  
John dropped the keys into Lestrade's palm and walked round the back of the car to the other side.  
  
Lestrade unlocked the car and and got in. "So," he asked as John got in the passenger side and they both put their seat belts on, "Where to?"  
  
"Well one of us has a flatmate with no sense of personal boundaries. So whose place do you _think_ we should go to for a little privacy?"  
  
Lestrade turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life.  
  
"Besides, my bed squeaks _really_ badly," John added.  
  
The car lurched forward as Lestrade stalled it.  
  
"You driven one of these before?" John asked, grinning.  
  
"Shut it, smart-arse." Lestrade tried to get both the car and his brain back into gear and they set off, possibly a _little_ quicker than was strictly legal...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 31st, 2010_ John and Greg have some unfinished business...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you still reading! I am so grateful for your continued patience, you have no idea! The last two chapters should be up a lot quicker. This one just took ages because a) I wanted to get it right and b) "Smut - hee hee! Wait - whose leg is that?"

Greg parked his car in the drive, got out and walked towards his house, trying to ignore the fact his heart felt like it was beating three hundred times a minute.

He had never found it so hard to concentrate as he had on the drive home. The scent coming from the passenger seat had been begging for his attention. To make it worse, every time he'd glanced over at John, the younger man was grinning infuriatingly, apparently only too aware what effect he was having.

The front door slammed shut behind them.

Greg took his coat off and hung it up in the hall.

John did likewise with his jacket then darted to the bottom of the stairs. He paused with one foot on the bottom step and turned back towards Greg. "You got a downstairs loo?" he asked.

"What? Oh, no, just the bathroom upstairs. Second on the left."

"Ta." John scampered up the stairs - and took the _first_ door on the left.

"No - that's... bugger." Greg pounded up the stairs after him. "That's, umm, that's my room - and I didn't know you'd be coming over so it's a bit..."

He stopped dead in the doorway.

"...messy," Greg finished faintly.

John was sitting on the end of the bed, smiling pleasantly at him. "Looks fine to me." He bounced up and down on the mattress a few times. "Is this memory foam?"

Greg nodded mutely.

"I've always wanted one of these." John kicked his shoes off, hurled himself backwards and landed full length on the bed with his hands behind his head. He wriggled his hips and shoulders, making a John-shaped indentation in the thick duvet.  "God, that's comfy - and plenty of room to stretch out, too. I mean, don't get me wrong, my bed at Baker Street is bliss compared to a cot in a tent but this... this is _glorious_."

Greg watched him, still trying to reconnect his brain to his vocal cords.

John was on his bed.

_John_ was on his _bed_ \- just... _lying_ there, letting his scent seep into the bed linens and gradually fill the room, with his eyes closed, and his lips shining where he'd licked them a moment ago, and his pulse throbbing in his neck, and his chest rising and falling with each breath, and the soft hair under the curve of his stomach just visible where his shirt had pulled free from his trousers, and his...

_Oh, Jesus_... There was no mistaking the not-so-slight bulge on the left side of John's trousers.

John opened his eyes, sat up and leaned back on his hands. "Going to stand there all night?" he asked.

"Thinking about it." Greg's voice sounded to his own ears like it had dropped an octave in the past five minutes.

John held out his hand. "Come here."

Greg sent desperate messages to his legs to _just fucking move, dammit!_ He lurched stiffly towards the bed and grabbed for John's hand like a drowning man being thrown a lifeline.

John lay back down, pulling on Greg's hand so Greg was forced to climb on top of him. Greg ended up with his hands placed on either side of John's head and his knees either side of John's hips.

John's face split into a wide grin. "Now, where were we?"

Greg closed his eyes. He was starting to feel light-headed. "God, John..."

"Hey - you alright?"

"Yes... No... I feel... dizzy, breathless, like I'm drunk or... like I just ran very fast for a long time... " He opened his eyes again and locked them onto John's. "But I always feel like that around you. I got so used to not feeling anything but you... you didn't even give me a choice. I've held out for so long and you... you just showed up and... _destroyed_ all my defences. That first morning, you came into my office, reeking of sweat and gunpowder and... sheer nerve. I mean the _balls_ on you that morning...  You just didn't care and I... I wasn't ready for it. For you... But I'm... I'm  ready now.... and..." He stopped and drew breath. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Little bit," John agreed. "Let me stop you." He pulled Greg's head down to meet his.

It had only been three days since they'd last been here and with everything that had happened it should have felt like a lifetime, instead it felt like no time had passed at all.

The _want_ came rushing back in a flood that almost left Greg breathless. John's tongue practically fucking his mouth and his hands trying to touch every hair on Greg's head did the rest.

Their kissing started slowly, almost lazily, but quickly grew more heated. Hands which at first were content to hold or stroke now groped and tugged impatiently at clothing as they tussled back and forth. Greg's shirt came off, followed by John's jumper and in very short order they were both naked from the waist up.

Greg shifted his knees back and dropped as much of his weight on top of John as he dared. John wriggled his hips to get more comfortable... and Greg gasped as their cocks came into contact with each other through their clothes. "Oh God, John..."

"Feel that? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Yeah..."

John put his hands on Greg's chest and pushed him away slightly so they could focus on each other.

"Greg, if you're going to call a halt again, do it now. I swear, I will hunt you down and _kill_ you if this goes any further and then you leg it again."

"No, no more running," Greg promised.

John hooked his finger into the buckle of Greg's belt and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. When Greg nodded he deftly undid it followed by the button and fly of his trousers.

He rolled over, reversing their positions and then slid backwards down Greg's legs and off the bed. He stood up and pulled off Greg's trousers, leaving him in only boxers and socks.

He leaned over and ran his hands up the tops of Greg's thighs. "Fuck, Greg, you are gorgeous, d'you know that?"

"I told you, John - I'm not going anywhere; you can stop with the smooth talk."

John laughed. "You idiot. I'm just telling you what I see - and what I see is fucking _spectacular_."

John reached for the growing bulge in Greg's boxer shorts but Greg grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

"Condoms! Shit - I don't have any."

John reached into his back pocket. "I do. Total tart, remember?" He tossed a small foil packet to Greg. "Do you want me to wear one as well? I am clean, for what it's worth - though you should never just take somebody's word for it."

"Umm, no, that's OK. I trust you - plus I don't think you can actually give me anything anyway."

"Oh yeah - your insane super-immune system. OK, you open that while I get the rest of my kit off."

Greg tore open the foil, glad of something else to concentrate on other than the curve of John's arse as he tugged down his trousers and pants and bent over.

"Sure I've got some lube here somewhere...." John picked up his trousers and rummaged around in the pockets before producing another small packet. "Aha!"

Greg took out the condom and then swore as he realised he still had his boxer shorts on - not that his erection wasn't making an impressive effort to escape them without any assistance at all.

John laughed and carefully took the condom from him, allowing Greg to lift his hips, push his boxers down his legs and kick them off onto the floor. He laid back with his hands by his sides, nervously clutching at the duvet he was lying on top of.

"Ready?" John asked.

"Yeah - I better put that on now though," Greg reminded him.

"Allow me." As he spoke John climbed up onto the bed and straddled Greg's lower legs. He carefully rolled the start of the condom over the head of Greg's cock then, with the filthiest grin Greg had ever seen, he leaned over, placed his mouth over the tip and slowly rolled the rest of the condom down Greg's length using his mouth.

"Jesus fuck," Greg cursed.

John hummed appreciatively before he slowly drew his lips back with a soft pop. "OK?"

"Y-yes, very," Greg said breathlessly. "Thank you," he added, almost as an afterthought.

John chuckled as he circled the base of Greg's cock with his thumb and forefinger and guided it to his lips again. He swirled his tongue over and around Greg's cock, slowly moving his head back and forth in time with the movement of his fingers.

Even through the latex it felt amazing. Greg put his hand on John's head but he couldn't decide if he wanted to pull John's head away because it was too much or grab his hair and start fucking the back of his throat. He settled for gently pushing his fingertips through the hair around John's ears.

"God, John... that... that feels... _fuck_... that feels _so_ good."

John smiled and pulled away again. "Good. It's meant to."

"Shouldn't... shouldn't I be doing something for you?"

"You're doing it. You're letting me show you what you've been missing."

He leaned over and kissed his way up Greg's body to his mouth, sprawling across him so his naked erection rubbed tantalisingly against Greg's protected one.

"But don't worry - you're about to do plenty. Here." John reached for the packet of lube, tore it open and squeezed a generous amount out onto Greg's hand. He covered Greg's hand with his and guided it to where their bodies met.  "Yeah, just like that..." He showed Greg how to gently squeeze and stroke both their cocks at the same time, coating them in the slippery liquid.

"Christ, John." Greg groaned as John leaned over to start nibbling and flicking at Greg's nipples with his tongue. He grabbed the back of John's hair with his free hand and dragged him back up to kiss him again, this time much more aggressively.

John grunted with pleasure and tipped his head back, exposing his neck for Greg to attack, which he did with great enthusiasm, sucking vivid marks into John's pale skin as his large hand pressed their cocks together. Greg's free hand latched onto John's hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling him closer with each thrust.

John put his hands either side of Greg's head, locked his elbows and braced himself, knees spread obscenely wide to allow him to practically sit in Greg's lap. "Been wanting your hands on me for ages, " John confessed in harsh gasps. "Want them on me.. and _in_ me... "

He locked eyes with Greg. "Want _you_ in me."

"God, yes. Just show me how."

"Later," John promised. "Going to do _everything _with you, Greg."__

Greg's movements became more frantic and less co-ordinated as John's words and the mental images they provoked overwhelmed him. He gripped harder, thrust faster...

"Oh Jesus, John... Jesus.. I... Fuck.. fuck.. FUCK!"

Greg's hips bucked so hard he almost threw John off. He groaned and thrust upward a few more times as his climax ripped through him before collapsing back onto the bed.

"Oh... Oh god... shit..." Greg let his eyes close and his head fall back as he relaxed. 

" _Fuck_ \- you're beautiful when you come," John swore.

Greg opened his eyes again.

John stared down at him intently, biting his lip. His hand was tugging harder and harder at his cock until suddenly he went absolutely still. He closed his eyes and his cock jerked in his hand. Several thick white spurts of come landed on Greg's stomach and chest. "Fuck.. Oh fuck... yeah..."

He opened his eyes again and grinned down at Greg.

John's skin was pink and flushed, his hair was damp with sweat and either plastered to his head or sticking up in all sorts of directions - Greg thought he hadn't seen anyone so gorgeous in his whole life...


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _March 31st, 2010_ : Greg and John enjoy the afterglow... but is there something Greg's forgetting?

Greg felt...

He had no idea how he felt. Wonderful. Vulnerable. Amazed. Terrified. Exhausted. Elated...

Wet.

"Oh _fuck_!"

He'd relaxed his grip holding the condom around the base of his cock and the law of gravity being what it was...

"Don't... don't move, John. I need to clean this up."

John laughed then toppled over to one side and sighed contentedly. "I don't think I could move even if I wanted to."

Greg slid off the bed and padded out into the hall, trying not to drip anywhere. "Back in a minute."

"Stop worrying!" John called after him.

Greg headed into the bathroom trying to tell himself the same thing. It was OK - messy, but OK. None of it had gone anywhere near John. It would be fine.

He carefully disposed of the condom, had a quick wash and went back to the bedroom with a handful of toilet paper for John.

"Thanks." John cleaned himself off then looked uncertain as to his next move.

"Just chuck it in the bin there," Greg said, nodding towards a small wastebasket by the door. He took a pair of clean white boxers from the top drawer of his dresser and tugged them on.

John sat up, took aim and raised his arms victoriously when the wad of paper landed squarely in the centre of the metal cylinder.

Greg, who did the exact same thing most nights putting his socks into the laundry basket, frowned in mock disapproval.

John stuck his tongue out.

Greg pounced on him.

They wrestled, laughing and tickling and snatching kisses from each other, until they were both breathless again.

Greg flopped back on top of the bed and John snuggled into his shoulder. Greg marvelled at how _right_ it felt to have him there.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" John asked.

Greg gently stroked John's back. "I think I can safely say you're the best lover I've ever had."

John laughed. The vibration of it went through Greg's body and he closed his eyes, wanting this moment to last for... oh, _the rest of time_ would be about right.

"Mm, 'lover'. Sounds good when you say that. Say it again," John prompted.

Greg hesitated before replying, "Are you mocking my West Country upbringing by any chance?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Greg could feel John's grin as a stretch of stubbled skin against Greg's chest.

"Yeah right." Greg rolled over so John was on his back and he was leaning over him. He kissed John softly on the lips before thickly laying on his long-forgotten boyhood accent. "Whatever you say, _moi luvver_."

John laughed and pulled him close again. " I am yours, you know. You're stuck with me now. Not a hope in hell of getting rid of me this time."

Greg sighed. "S'pose I'll just have to put up with you then."

John's smile could have lit buildings. "S'pose you will." A small shiver ran through him. "Brr - don't suppose you can put up with me _under_ the duvet?"

"Sorry - of course." Greg rolled off the bed and stood up. John did the same off the other side. They lifted the duvet and slid back under it, resuming their former position.

"You probably don't even feel cold, do you? You're giving off heat like a bloody furnace." John wriggled himself even closer to Greg's chest.

"Ah, I knew there'd be a catch - you only love me for my body heat."

"Mmm..." John agreed drowsily as his eyes closed.

Greg watched as John's breathing evened out and his muscles relaxed. The idea that someone could know what he was and still trust him enough to fall asleep naked next to him was making his head spin. It was so contrary to everything he'd ever told himself.

And yet, here they were.

Greg felt like he should be angry that he'd denied himself this simple happiness for so long but the more he thought of it the more he realised it would never have worked before now.

He'd needed somebody experienced, tough, but with the capacity for gentleness, and so level-headed you could balance books on him.

He'd needed John.

Thank Christ John hadn't given up on him.

He brushed a few stray hairs away from John's forehead and softly kissed it.

John made a tiny "Mmmh" noise but didn't wake.

Greg wasn't really that tired but he closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a light doze, with his nose buried in John's hair...

* * *

He woke as he felt John stirring against him.

John blinked groggily a few times then focused on Greg's eyes. "Have you been awake all this time?"

"No. I was asleep too. I don't know - something in your breathing shifted or something before you woke up and it woke me up. Good nap?"

"Yeah." John yawned hugely. "What time is it?"

"Umm, about eight I think?" Greg looked past him to the alarm clock. "Yeah, ten to eight."

"Mmm, mind if I use your shower?"

"Be my guest. There's towels in the cupboard in the hall."

John stood up and stretched his arms above his head, popping a few joints in the process. "Don't think I can't tell you're looking at my arse."

"Don't think I can't tell you're wanting me to," Greg shot back.

"Guilty as charged, officer." John turned and threw Greg a wicked grin over his shoulder. "Going to arrest me?"

"Going to spank you silly if you don't take that arse to the shower along with the rest of you."

"That a promise?"

Greg growled and leapt out of the bed.

John easily dodged him and fled, still laughing, into the bathroom.

Greg pulled on his dressing gown and went to find John a towel. He opened the bathroom door just enough to hang it on the rack above the radiator.

"Fancy a cuppa?" he asked the blur behind the shower curtain.

"Ooh yeah. Ta."

By the time Greg had gone downstairs, flipped the kettle on and collected together the mugs, tea bags, milk and sugar, John had finished his shower. He reappeared as Greg was stirring the sugar in, fully dressed again apart from his socks and shoes which he was carrying in one hand. With the other he was scrubbing his hair dry with the towel.

"Ahh, life saver. Cheers." John dropped the towel over the back of a chair, sat down, picked up his mug and took an appreciative sip. "Mmm." He looked at Greg over the top of the clouds of steam coming from his mug. "I could definitely get used to this."

Greg sat down and took a sip from his own mug before replying, "There's something you have to do first."

"Thought I'd just done it." John grinned.

"I'm serious, John. You have to talk to Sarah. I don't know where things are with you two but if you were starting anything, it's only fair you let her know it's not going any further."

John's smile vanished and he sighed. "You're right. I've been a bit of a bastard there, haven't I? I'll give her a call, see if I can go over and talk to her."

"Right now?"

"Yeah, sooner would be better. Oh - and I've got a couple of things I need to do online at the flat too."

"You can use my laptop if you like."

"Thanks but it doesn't have my logins stored on it and I can never remember them."

"Ah."

"But once that's done I'm going to come straight back over here, so don't go anywhere."

"OK. You want to bring in some dinner with you or...?"

"No, I don't know how long I'll be with Sarah. You go ahead and see to yourself."

"Thought I didn't have to do that any more?"

"Cheeky bugger - and no you don't... unless I get to watch... and join in."

"I'll try to resist until you get back. No promises, mind."

John finished his tea and stood up. "Fair enough. If I were you I'd have trouble keeping my hands off myself too."

"Get your socks on and get out, you charmer."

John tugged his socks and shoes on and gave Greg a quick peck on the cheek as he went out the door. "See you later, _moi luvver_."

Greg shook his head as he watched John head up his front path to the gate. "Worst accent I ever heard," he called after him.

John just laughed and gave him a quick wave before disappearing...

* * *

Greg went back indoors, took a more leisurely shower, threw on some clothes, wandered back downstairs to the kitchen and made himself a light dinner of pasta and sauce.

He flicked between a variety of cooking and property shows while he ate, did the washing up then went back upstairs and stripped and remade the bed. Even once he'd put the dirty sheets in the laundry hamper he could still smell _John_ and _sex_ all through the house.

He grinned and shook his head when he caught himself whistling as he worked.

He took care of a few more chores but couldn't help feeling he was forgetting something. When it finally hit him, he closed his eyes and groaned. "The _match_."

That made it official; he _must_ be smitten if John managed to make him forget an Arsenal game - a Champions League match, at that.

Greg grabbed a beer from the fridge, plonked himself down on the sofa, picked up his laptop and navigated to the BBC website.

[Arsenal 2 - 2 Barcelona ](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/europe/8591643.stm)

He read through the match report as he swigged his beer. Sounded like he'd missed a cracking game. Somehow though, he couldn't quite bring himself to be that disappointed. Of course he'd have to come up with a different excuse for his mates who had the seats next to him in the stand. "I was losing my virginity to an ex-army doctor at the time and completely forgot" probably wouldn't be the best line to give them.

He put the TV back on and turned to the news so he could at least see the goals on the match report. Once the news and weather had finished he turned the TV off and glanced anxiously at his watch.

10:50pm - what the hell was keeping John?

He should call him.

No, that would be pathetic.

He'd give him a bit longer, maybe Sarah had had more to say than John reckoned for.

He went back to his laptop and looked at a few more statistics and match reports on some other web sites. A draw was a good result against a team of that quality. Return leg was going to be a tough one though.

Speaking of which, he suddenly remembered, wasn't there still one more pip to go in that other "game"?

Please God let it wait until tomorrow - even mad bombers have to sleep, don't they? Although if this guy was some twisted evil version of Sherlock then maybe not.

Greg chuckled. He'd have sworn when he first met him that _Sherlock_ was the twisted evil version of Sherlock. It had taken time to realise Sherlock could be a good man, was a good man, especially now he had John around to remind him how it should be done.

His main concern about the final puzzle was that Sherlock had to wait for that damn pink phone to ring and Greg had to wait for Sherlock to tell him what it said. So far Moriarty had made sure that the Met had got involved very early on in each round of his insane battle of wills with Sherlock but that was no guarantee.

Greg had a nasty suspicion round five was where it was going to get personal.

Sherlock had typed the solution to the first three puzzles into his website. This last time though he'd been talking to Moriarty directly at the denouement - sort of. So was the next step actually talking to the man himself? Would they finally get a face to go with the name?

Greg hadn't looked at Sherlock's website since he'd typed in his solution to Connie Prince's murder. There would be no mention of the Vermeer but might there be something else? It was Sherlock's only way of initiating contact with the bomber before he called.

He tapped in the address of Sherlock's site.

_What the hell are the 'Bruce-Partington plans'? 'The Pool' - which pool? 'Midnight' - midnight tonight?_

Greg checked his watch - just gone 11:30. He grabbed his phone and called Sherlock.

It went straight to voicemail.

He fought down a horrible tightening sensation in his stomach as he called John.

"Hello, this is John Watson. I'm sorry I..."

Shit. Not good. He hung up without leaving a message. John could still be at Sarah's - he could be lots of different places - but somehow Greg just knew that John would be where Sherlock was. And Sherlock was at "The Pool".

There must be _thousands_ of pools in London. That's even assuming it didn't mean just a pond or something. Gyms, schools, hotels, public swimming pools...

_Wait! Carl Powers - those trainers, Sherlock's first case - he drowned at a swimming competition, didn't he? Where was the pool?_

Greg scrabbled through his coat pockets and dug out his notes on the case file he'd retrieved earlier, muttering as he flipped through them. "No... no... Yes!"

_Richmond Baths...._

He grabbed his car keys and sprinted for the door, dialling Donovan's number as he ran...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you _so_ much for your patience! Chapter 14 will be up much _much_ quicker. I'm aiming for before New Years Day (the first anniversary of posting Chapter 1!)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _April 1st, 2010:_ Greg arrives at Richmond Baths just in time to meet someone very dangerous...

The streets were thankfully quiet at this time of night but it was still well after midnight by the time Greg finally reached the old Public Baths on the edge of Richmond Park.  
  
He skidded the car to a stop, opened his door and scrambled out. The scent of chlorine and brick dust and explosives clawed at the back of his throat.  
  
 _Christ, not again!_  
  
The building was a smouldering ruin. He could see fires burning amongst the rubble in strange contrast to all the water, gushing everywhere from burst pipes. It looked like something from a Blitz documentary.  
  
 _Like a bomb's hit it..._  
  
A lot of people in reflective clothing were rushing around with single-minded purpose; firemen and medics swarmed over and into the wreckage, others had already set up command points and a perimeter.  
  
 _Where in the hell did they all come from - and how did they get here so quickly?_  
  
Someone ran up to tell him he couldn't be there. The 'someone' was in a plain black suit, not a uniform, which set Greg's alarm bells ringing all over again.  
  
 _Have the spooks got involved now? That's all I need..._  
  
He flashed his warrant card. "D.I. Lestrade, Serious Crime Command."  
  
The man pressed his finger to his ear and relayed Greg's name to someone else. He paused then stepped aside to let Greg pass.  
  
"What happened? Was there anybody in there?" Greg asked. "Who's in charge?"  
  
"You'll need to speak to him, sir." The suit pointed to a large black car parked some way back from the chaos. A tall, slender man in a light grey three-piece suit was standing talking to three more black suits. There was an attractive young woman next to him whose thumbs were a blur as they moved over the phone in her hands.  
  
Everything about Grey Suit's stance and attitude _screamed_ Senior Civil Service, especially the umbrella he was incongruously leaning on, though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Greg was sure he'd seen him before but he couldn't for the moment think where.  
  
He was on his way to speak to the man when a loud and urgent shout from the workers near the building distracted him...

* * *

  
The structural damage was extensive, but not quite enough to topple the aged Victorian building; things were built to last in those days.  
  
Mycroft Holmes, however, was a master at finding weak spots. He knew exactly where to give things a gentle nudge in order to provoke the desired outcome, and it was vital to his plans that the devastation was both complete and unquestionable.  
  
"Moriarty is confirmed dead, sir," Anthea informed him. "Doctor Watson is secured and stable."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"And DI Lestrade has just arrived." Anthea looked up and directed Mycroft's attention to a car that had drawn up at the perimeter.  
  
Quicker than Mycroft had expected - before Doctor Watson could be safely removed from the scene. Unfortunate but not insurmountable.  
  
"Carry on."  
  
Anthea typed into her Blackberry then looked up again. Moments later there was a loud rumble. The roof collapsed, the walls folded in on themselves and what little had been left of Richmond Baths came crashing down until barely one brick was left on top of another.  
  
Mycroft surveyed the scene as the smoke cleared. How fortuitous that the sole survivor had been pulled from the building moments before. No-one could have lived under that. He was sure of it - and so would everybody else be...

* * *

  
Greg turned just in time to see the rest of the building come crashing down. A huge cloud of dust and ash blew out towards him and on the very edge of the rush of air he caught just a trace of...  
  
 _John! Oh, God - John!_  
  
Greg charged headlong towards the wreckage but John's scent drifted off to one side, to where a stretcher was being loaded into a waiting ambulance. He sprinted towards it. His eyes anxiously strained to make out the figure under blanket and oxygen mask even as his nose told him exactly who it was.  
  
"John!"  
  
The feeling of relief when he saw those blue eyes flicker open was nearly overwhelming.  
  
"Greg?"  
  
John was barely conscious. His head was bleeding badly and his breathing was all wrong. His clothes were shredded by myriad shrapnel tears and covered in blood and dust.  
  
"John - what are you doing here? What happened? Was Sherlock in there?"  
  
John nodded - or tried to. The brace around his neck prevented him. "Find him. Please."  
  
"I will. I promise. Are you alright?"  
  
"Please, sir - we need to get Doctor Watson to hospital." One of the paramedics pushed Greg aside.  
  
"'Yeah. 'm OK. Find Sherlock," John wheezed.  
  
"I will. I'll let you know as soon as there's news, John. I promise." He grabbed John's hand and squeezed it.  
  
John didn't reply. His fingers went limp and slid out of Greg's grasp as they loaded the stretcher up into the vehicle. The doors slammed shut and it raced away, sirens blaring.  
  
Greg turned to head back towards the building when he heard someone call him.  
  
"Detective Inspector!"  
  
It was the man with the umbrella by the car.  
  
Greg jogged over to him.  
  
He picked up the man's scent as he got closer. There was something familiar about it but also something wrong. It set Greg's nerves even further on edge but he addressed him with a steady voice born of years of experience.  
  
"I understand you're in charge, sir. There's at least one other person unaccounted for. A man by the name of--"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes, yes." The man looked down and inspected the handle of his umbrella as if it was far more worthy of his attention than Greg. "Your assistance will not be required. The situation is out of your hands now."  
  
"But you don't understand!" Greg said. "You need to let me search that building. I can help find him! I'm... I've got..." _How do I explain it?_  
  
"I'm well aware of your unique capabilities, Detective Inspector," the man cut him off. "However, my own people have already ascertained that sadly there is very little left of Sherlock for you to... _sniff out_."  
  
He raised his head and gave Greg a look that was twice as cold, clinical and soul-stripping as anything he'd ever gotten from Sherlock.  
  
Greg instantly realised that this man was Sherlock's notorious elder brother, Mycroft, he was far more than just a minor civil servant and he _knew_.  
  
There was no signal given that he was aware of but two very large men suddenly unfolded themselves from within the car. They kept their eyes firmly fixed on Greg as they reached into their jackets.  
  
Greg put two and two together, came up with _Shit!_ and seconds later was running at top speed across the car park towards the woods at the edge of the Park.  
  
He was almost at the tree-line when the first dart hit his back. The second lodged in his right thigh. The drug took a few steps to kick in and sheer momentum carried him a few more after that, but he'd made it less than twenty yards in total before he crashed to the ground, unconscious...

* * *

  
Mycroft had briefly considered stopping any interaction between Watson and Lestrade but it couldn't affect anything and would only raise both men's suspicions so he let them exchange a few words.  
  
Letting Lestrade anywhere near where _Sherlock_ was supposed to be was another matter entirely. Mycroft distracted him before he could get too close.  
  
It was tempting to take a little time to study the man in more detail before the inevitable conclusion the the meeting. Mycroft had never been this close to him before. Still, there would be plenty of time for that later.  
  
Anthea had disapproved of the risk but Mycroft knew Lestrade would run rather than attack. He smiled thinly at her as Lestrade proved him right and took off towards the trees.  
  
He had a remarkable turn of speed - something else Mycroft determined to study later - but not quite fast enough. He fell heavily into the bushes at the edge of the parking area as the tranquiliser flooded his system.  
  
One of Mycroft's men moved forward and checked Lestrade while the other kept his gun trained on him in case he was pretending. The first man confirmed he was out and they both holstered their weapons before picking up Lestrade's body and carrying him back to the car. They laid him face down on the floor in the back of the car and quickly started securing him according to the instructions Mycroft had given them beforehand.  
  
Lestrade's wrists were placed behind his back and bound together with strong cable ties, as were his ankles. The man at his feet bent Lestrade's legs at the knee and drew his feet up towards his hands, connecting the ties around each with a short length of chain. The man who had climbed into the car first and secured Lestrade's wrists took a blindfold from his pocket and positioned it carefully over Lestrade's eyes.  A muzzle gag followed, wrapping over the blindfold and around Lestrade's head, holding a thick pad over his mouth and completing covering his chin and lower face. Finally Lestrade was rolled onto his side, facing the back seat, and the chain between his hands and feet was secured to a bolt fitted into the floor, just in front of the partition between passenger and driver.  
  
Lestrade showed no signs of regaining consciousness.  
  
The man closest to the door looked up at Mycroft. "Anything else, sir?"  
  
"No, that will do. Thank you."  
  
The men climbed out and got into the front of the car. Mycroft was just about to get into the back when another police car drew up and a woman he recognised as Detective Sergeant Donovan got out. She spoke to the man at the perimeter and came over. The car door was between her and Mycroft, blocking her view of the car's interior.  
  
"Excuse me, sir. I was told you're in charge. Have you seen D.I. Lestrade?" she asked.  
  
"He was here but I'm afraid he was called away urgently - on a matter of national security," Mycroft said with complete honesty. "I believe a D.I. Dimmock is on his way to take over."  
  
"What? He just left? He wouldn't do that. Not when we're still looking for the Fr-- I mean, not when there's still a civilian missing."  
  
"You needn't be polite on my account, D.S. Donovan. I am well aware of your views on my younger brother. I believe the search will be called off very shortly. Dr Watson is sadly the sole survivor of this evening's events."  
  
"Sherlock's dead?" Donovan asked in a stunned whisper.  
  
Mycroft noted with interest how her face paled. Genuine remorse - intriguing.  
  
"Wait - and he's your _brother_? You don't seem that upset." She switched from shock to suspicion in an instant.  
  
" _Was_ my brother - and on the contrary, this whole situation has troubled me more than you can possibly imagine. If you'll excuse me, please - I have a lot of arrangements to make on my brother's behalf." Mycroft got into the car and quickly shut the door.  
  
As the car stopped to get out through the cordon he opened the window and beckoned to one of his men. "Please ensure Detective Sergeant Donovan is close by when the bodies are found."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"That'll be all, thank you." Mycroft closed the window again and sat back.  
  
He placed the loaded tranquilliser gun on the seat beside him and visually checked Lestrade's restraints as the car sped away. His men had only been given enough information as strictly necessary and he now had to assume that they suspected him of all sorts of sexual deviancy. Kidnapping a Metropolitan Police officer and having him bound and gagged in the back of his car in a very suggestive position would raise a few eyebrows but his people were far too well trained - and paid - for idle gossip.  
  
The truth was that he had no idea how long the sedative would affect Lestrade, so speed had been of the essence. The hog-tie was to ensure that he would be discouraged from shifting form. If he was placed in a position that would dislocate the animal's joints, hopefully that would prevent him from doing so. The cable ties were used so they could be tightened quickly if Lestrade could thin his wrists and ankles.  
  
The muzzle had obviously been first on the requirements list and while the blindfold was not strictly necessary, it certainly couldn't hurt. The more disoriented Lestrade was, the better.  
  
The car had been underway for a little over fifteen minutes when Lestrade stirred. He moved against his restraints then there was a sharp intake of breath before he struggled against them in earnest.  
  
Mycroft picked up the gun as a precaution. He was impressed and, in all honesty, a little awed. The dose Lestrade had been given would have put any other man of his build and health out for well over an hour - more useful data.  
  
"Please calm yourself, Lestrade. This is as much for your protection as anybody else's," Mycroft told him.  
  
Lestrade stopped thrashing and lay still, breathing heavily through his nose. He cocked his head towards Mycroft, doubtless trying to place his voice.  
  
"You must have known this would always be your eventual fate. I allowed you to remain at liberty - under strict observation - because you were useful to Sherlock's work, and therefore his well-being, and you proved yourself loyal to him on many occasions.  
  
"However, with Sherlock's untimely demise, I cannot now in all good conscience allow such an unknown quantity to remain wandering the streets of our capital at will."  
  
Lestrade breathed in sharply again at the word "demise" and his head shook from side to side in mute denial.  
  
"It's ironic in a way," Mycroft mused. "All this time you believed Sherlock was in some small way under your protection, while you were, in fact, very much under his."  
  
Lestrade's shoulders sagged as he let his head rest against the floor again.

"Anyway, I assure you that the doctors I have placed in charge of your care are all of the highest standards and, once we have some minor tests out of the way, I believe you could become a great asset to this country."

A few minutes later the car drew to a stop.  
  
"Our transport is waiting, sir." Anthea's voice announced over the car's intercom.  
  
"Excellent. Please have our guest transferred. I think perhaps four times the initial dose should cover it."  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
The door opened and Anthea climbed in holding a syringe. Mycroft nodded and she plunged the needle into Lestrade's thigh.  
  
He protested loudly but the gag muffled most of it and the noise quickly died away as the drug took effect.

Mycroft handed the tranquilizer gun to her.

"You'd better give them this in case that dose is insufficient."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
Mycroft had wanted to get his hands on Lestrade for a long time but had put his own ambitions aside while the man was useful to Sherlock. Now that was no longer the case, he was very much looking forward to better making Lestrade's acquaintance.  
  
The ink was already drying on Sherlock's death certificate, Sherlock himself would be out of the country for at least a year and Doctor Watson would be incapacitated for weeks, if not months, so he had plenty of time.  
  
Still that didn't mean he could dawdle.

He got out of the car and watched as the two agents unchained Lestrade from the bolt holding him to the car floor and loaded him into the back of the waiting helicopter.

The sky was clear, the weather was good; it should only take them a few hours to reach Baskerville...

 

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am all those things you are calling me right now but this is always where this was going - sorry. 
> 
> There will be a brief hiatus (I know - that word should be forbidden) before Part2 but I promise there _will_ be a Part 2.


End file.
